


And I would stand inside my Hell (and hold the hand of death)

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: The world is coming to an end, and predictably, the Winchesters are directly in the thick of it. With every seal that breaks, things are changing, and Dean is left wondering just who will still be standing when the chips finally fall. Will the Winchesters prevent almost certain disaster, or will Lilith succeed in her quest to raise Lucifer?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> The alternate ending takes place, timeline-wise, directly after part nine.
> 
> ETA: Fucking Photobucket ate my big bang art. I don't know if I'll be able to replace it, because I'm not sure I remember which images go where. Sorry about the ugly Photobucket image. D:

  


**part one**

_The light over the city is silver, like a metallic sheet of liquid sky. Far, far below, a young man throws his arms out wide, and the city starts to burn._

Dean stands, looking up at the red-brick house in front of him. Sam comes up beside him after a minute, their weapons duffel slung over his broad shoulder. He squints against the sun, close enough to Dean that if Dean shifts on his feet just a little, his own shoulder brushes up against Sam's. It's a comforting reassurance, knowing that Sam is always only inches away from him at any given moment. 

"What do you think?" Sam asks, reaching up to shade his eyes with his hand. 

"It doesn't look haunted," Dean replies, shrugging. "But of course, that doesn't mean anything." 

"The girl in town said this was the place," says Sam. "She said that there's funny lights going on and off in the windows all night, even when the owners were out of town." 

"Yeah, but did anyone actually _check_ with the owners to see if they'd noticed anything weird?" Dean scrounges around in his pocket until he finds the EMF, pulls it out and switches it on. Nothing. 

"No," Sam answers slowly. "No, they didn't. And there's been no deaths or anything, just the strange lights." 

"Could be will 'o the wisps," Dean remarks, "but not inside a house, really." 

"She was pretty specific about it being a haunting." Sam drops the duffel to the ground next to the Impala. "But there's no real evidence. So: either we can pick the lock and give it a once-over with the EMF, or we can park the Impala across the street and keep an eye on it tonight." 

"Or both," Dean muses, flipping the EMF back off and stuffing it back into the depths of his pocket. "Or we should blow this joint until there's a reason to think we're needed." 

"Dean," Sam says. "You know we can't just ignore a lead. Not even if you're pissed with Castiel." 

"But like you said, no deaths that we know of. Not even the news article mentioned any strange or bizarre deaths or mutilations. And, for fuck's sake, why can't it be a timer? If the--" 

"You're right. Back to town to question more people?" 

"What are we doing here, again, Sam?" Dean asks absentmindedly. 

"You know perfectly well, Dean," Sam replies, shortness to his tone, and it's true; Dean remembers just as well as Sam that a few nights ago, he woke up in a cold sweat with a dream on his lips. 

And the midnight research he did into the town he dreamt about, before he even mentioned it to Sam. The strange news reports, the brief mention of local folklore with the headline, 'No Longer Dormant in Downtown?' 

Dean picks at his teeth with a fingernail, still staring at the innocuous looking red-brick. The sun is slanting brightly down over the roof, and there's no-one around in the spacious green yard, no cars parked nearby, nothing but quiet and stillness. 

Stillness. 

"Fuck," Dean swears. "It's too fucking quiet." 

"Yeah," Sam says, still shading his eyes. "But to answer your question anyway, Dean, we're here because you had a _dream_ and in it Castiel told you there was a seal in this town." 

"Don't be mocking the dreams, Sam," Dean smirks. "I seem to recall that--" 

"Shut up, dumb-ass," Sam says. "At least I didn't have 'I dreamed of an angel' every night playing on a loop in my brain." 

"No, you had the Shining, which is worse. Sammy, though, do you hear _anything_? Birds? Dogs barking? Even people talking down the street?" 

"No, I don't," Sam lowers his hand, faces Dean. "No insects either. Just--" and he stops, cocking his head, listening -- "just rustling. Something's muting all ambient noise." 

"Right. Maybe this isn't such a fuck-off after all." Dean drops to his knees and fishes his sawed-off out of the duffel. "C'mon, Sam, let's take a peek inside." 

Sam snags his own sawed-off, shoulders the duffel again, and takes point with the shotgun. Dean slips up behind him, and suddenly, the air around them bursts with bird song, and Sam lowers the shotgun. 

"Okay, that's weird," he mumbles. "Dean?" 

Dean's on his knees with the lock-pick slipping in and out of the tumblers of the front-door lock, and after a second it clicks open and slowly swings inward. Sam looks at the door, then at Dean, who's just getting to his feet. 

And then the birds stop singing again. 

"Did you push the door open?" Sam whispers, raising the shotgun again and pointing it into inky darkness. 

"No," Dean hisses back. "Dude, it's the middle of the day, any spirit should be either dormant or too weak to manifest." 

"Just _what_ did Castiel send us here to deal with?" Sam queries, swinging the shotgun from side to side. "And I can't see a damn thing, Dean. Listen, this is fucked up. The sun is like a furnace outside, it should be brighter in here." 

And then Dean hears it: chanting, coming from somewhere in the darkness, distant enough that it might be emanating from the second story. He tosses a look over at Sam, and his brother quirks an eyebrow; he must hear it too. 

"Okay, spirits usually don't chant," Dean mutters. "And this house was definitely deserted a minute ago, according to the EMF." 

Sam grimaces, entering the creeping darkness slowly, and when Dean looks back over his shoulder, he realises that it is indeed doing just that. There's now an oval spread of darkness over the front stoop, and he punches Sam in the shoulder, getting his brother's attention. Sam turns around, stares at the way the sun is bleeding away, and meets Dean's eyes. That _'oh, fuck,'_ expression on his face is probably mirrored on Dean's own. 

"I think we need to do more research," Sam suggests, walking back towards the stairs. Figures that Sam would pussy out and want to bury his nose in more dusty books and newspapers. And then, almost as soon as Sam gets back to the stairs, the chanting fades away, the sun brightly floods back into the darkened area, and all around them the house is suddenly illuminated. Dean takes in the bare floors, the expansive room empty of all furniture, the gleam like it's been scrubbed recently, and cocks an eyebrow back at Sam. 

"Sammy," he says. "I think we fucked up." 

"That girl in town," Sam starts. "She said people lived here. She said she'd been inside once to sell magazine subscriptions and that their house was cluttered and grimy around the edges. This isn't -- did they move?" 

"Or something else. A demon?" 

"If it were a demon, Dean, it would have shown itself by now. It would have attacked us." 

"Not necessarily. C'mon, dude, let's go back to the Impala and just, I don't know, keep an eye on the place for awhile." 

"You don't wanna go inside?" 

"Sam, I think we missed the boat on this one. Whatever was happening here, it's over for now. There's no point in exploring -- not if the house is empty." 

"Dean--" 

"I'm not being a pussy, Sam, I'm being practical." 

"I'm sure," Sam says dryly. "Look, I think we should go back into town and--" 

The air shudders around them, goes hot and still and heavy, and then Dean whirls, ready for anything, only to be faced with his own personal angel. 

"Did you stop it?" Castiel asks urgently. "Did you do as I said?" 

"Dude, fuck, you gotta give us more'n--" but Dean stops at the look on Castiel's face. 

"You don't _have_ time, Dean," the angel says with just as much force and urgency. "If you don't stop it, terrible things are going to come to pass." 

"Look," Sam says reasonably, "we just got here. We saw -- well, nothing, actually, but we heard chanting and then nothing. You said this was a haunting." 

" _No_ ," Castiel growls. "I said it was a _seal_." 

"Well, maybe if you'd been more specific," Dean snorts. "I mean, go here, stop this, no other details? And you wonder why it's taking too long?" 

"It's too late," Castiel says in a low voice. "It's already started. The seal -- it's breaking." 

"How?" Sam glances up at the house, front door still open, all of the windows shining in the late-afternoon heat. "What did you expect us to do?" 

"I expected you to stop it." And Castiel looks at them gravely. "There might still be time. Hurry." And then Dean opens his eyes, immediately seeks out Sam in the sunshine, and his brother is standing, looking slightly dazed with his forehead creased. 

"Dean, do you think that your angel could be more helpful, maybe?" 

"I don't get it." Dean turns back to the house. "I mean, sure, we're here, we followed the lead, but -- there was no-one in that house, Sam. So who was chanting? And to what purpose?" 

"Samhain?" Sam claps Dean on the shoulder, palm lingering for long breathless seconds as he thinks. When he steps back, his attention is focused entirely on the problem, and not on Dean at all. "Samhain was a demon, and those witches raised him. So this has gotta be something similar. But, I don't understand it either." 

"Witches that can apparate?" Dean says sarcastically. "Dude, it must have been a demon." 

"But, dude, why not come after us? Seems like every demon in the world knows who we are by now." 

"Maybe instead of arguing, we should go inside and sweep the second floor, looking for EMF or sulphur?" 

"You know..." Sam trails off, looking confused. "I mean, we could be wrong. How would we know from down here if there was someone up there? Maybe some kids?" 

"Chanting in another language?" Dean doesn't mean to scoff, but sometimes Sam's too easy, ready to believe the mundane just so he doesn't have to face the fantastical. 

"Dean, kids fuck around with shit like that all the time. They might not even know what they're doing." 

"Sammy, ten minutes ago, there were no sounds anywhere. So if there were kids--" 

"Demonic possession." 

"--then they -- wait, what?" 

"The house." Sam squints again, looking up. "Rustling. Scratching. A malevolent spirit. Demonic possession." 

"Then someone would have died." Dean follows Sam's gaze, and that's when he sees it, flies crawling all over an upper window. Flies that weren't there a minute ago. 

"Maybe they did," Sam says quietly. "Maybe the owners didn't go out of town." 

"Oh, we are so fucked," Dean groans. "You think the owners are up there?" 

"Dean... we gotta go check it out." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Explains a lot -- the door, the lights, the lack of normal noises." 

"And the chanting." 

"Yeah, that too." Dean lifts his sawed-off, then looks at it for a second. "Crap, this is gonna be no good. You got the holy water flasks?" 

"That's not gonna help either, Dean." 

"No. No way." 

" _Dean_. I don't think a regular exorcism is gonna work." 

"Well, that's what we're gonna try first. C'mon, Sam, let's get our asses in gear. Castiel's right about one thing: we're just wasting time, standing around with our junk in our hands." 

" _Now_ you're all gung-ho to go inside?" Sam sounds incredulous, but Dean's not about to dignify that with an answer. 

He enters the room again, clicks on his flashlight, shines it around. The room's dark again, and as they walk forward, Sam with his hands crossed, sawed-off in one and flashlight in the other, Dean comes to a sudden stop, staring down at the floor, at a crucifix. It looks like it's been melted into the floor, upside down, and Dean exchanges a look with Sam. 

"Dean," Sam whispers. "That wasn't there before." 

"I know." He walks forward again, stepping around it, but when he looks back, it's gone. 

They don't find anything else weird until they make it up the stairs, and then Sam and Dean both stop and look at each other, arrested by the sight in front of them. 

Every stick of furniture that might have been in the house is pressed up against each other, forming an impenetrable sea of desks and chairs and sofas, and behind that morass is an open door with what looks like orange light glowing in the room. 

"Okay, yeah, this is-- _fuck_." Sam breaks off, coughs a little and covers his nose. He trains his flashlight on the furniture again, and towards the middle of the mess is what looks like the master bed, and in it is a couple, hair stringy and skin mottled and hanging off their skulls, coated in flies and clearly rotting. 

"Yeah, dude, those strange lights? Someone's fucking around up here, and it ain't kids." 

"We gotta get to that room, Dean. Whatever's going on in this house, that's clearly the epicentre." 

"Thank you, college boy. Well, you wanna start climbing first, or should I?" But Dean doesn't wait for an answer, just commences scrambling over broken bits of furniture and swears colourfully when he catches his leg in the arm of a chair. Yanking it out, he flips his gaze back to Sam, who's climbing on top of a desk. 

And then the door slams shut and the air turns frigid, and underneath Dean the sofa he's traversing begins to shake violently. 

"Okay, Dean," Sam shouts over the sudden noise of all of the furniture grinding up against each other, "this is not good. Not good at all." 

"Start in with the Latin, dude," Dean yells back, and it takes all of his concentration to keep his balance on the sofa. Obediently Sam starts reciting the exorcism, and everything goes quiet, but not quiet like in relief, but quiet like any second something's going to explode. Behind the closed door, the light flares so that it shines in brilliant rays from every crack. 

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Dean shouts, resuming crawling over the furniture. 

"We're being hunted, I think," Sam says, and he pulls up level with Dean, his hair wind-tossed despite being inside a building. 

"So what's in that room that's so--" and then they both hear it again, Sam's nose wrinkling as he takes in the sound. 

Chanting, coming from within the room. And then a blast of supercharged light, so bright Dean's eyes close of their own accord and he can still see it through the arm he throws in front of his face. He moves sideways blindly, trying to protect Sam with his body, and waits. 

The frigid air seems to crystallise, and once again everything falls silent. The light fades and Dean cautiously peers around his forearm. The door's gone, completely incinerated by whatever that was, not even ash left behind, and the room is lit only by sunlight. The hairs on Dean's body were standing on end before, and they aren't any more. 

Dean looks back at Sam, and Sam shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know, dude. I think we're too late." 

" _Fuck,_ " Dean says eloquently, and that pretty much covers it. 

Sam sits back on the table he's perched on, studies the room. Dean does too. It's empty, but there's some kind of residue on the floor. 

"Well, you wanna or should I?" Dean asks, and starts moving towards it again. 

"Ten bucks it's sulphur or some other kind of spell residue," Sam says archly, and Dean snorts. 

"Yeah, that's not even a worthy bet, little brother," he says, and finally reaches the doorway. It's right about then that the sky darkens outside, dramatically like it would during a summer thunderstorm, and blankets everything in gray scummy light. 

He jumps down from the buffet table he was kneeling on and crouches down on the floor, doesn't look up when Sam's weight makes the floor groan angrily as he does the same. The EMF lights up, but Dean knew that it would. He sticks his finger in the yellowish substance, scowls. 

"Demon all right." 

"So what just happened?" Sam stands, crosses over to the window. When Dean looks over, he notices that the sill is covered with the bodies of what looks like hundreds of flies. 

"If I had to hazard a guess? The seal just broke and we fucked up royally." Dean gets to his feet and goes to stand next to Sam. Looking down out of the window, the wind is kicking up, making little tornadoes of leaves in the yard. 

"Oh man," Sam mutters. And then, just like that, his eyes roll back and he lists backwards, boneless, and Dean barely manages to keep him from striking his head on the hardwood. He checks Sam's pulse, but it's strong and regular, and his colour is good, but he's totally unconscious, eyelids fluttering. 

Like maybe he's having a seizure, but there's no other sign, his body is lax on the floor, head a dead weight against Dean's forearm, and he's not overly warm. Dean rubs a finger over Sam's forehead and comes away with sweat collected on the pad of it, but nothing else. Sam's not feverish, he's just -- passed out. 

And then Sam groans, rolls into a foetal position on his side, clutching at his head, moaning and thrashing. And _that_ looks like a vision, but Sam hasn't had one of those in so long-- 

Dean tries to untangle his brother, untwist him out of the pretzel he's made himself into, but Sam just keeps resisting, keening in the back of his throat and grabbing at his skull. 

And as suddenly as it all started, it's over. Sam flops onto his back, quiet and still, and opens his eyes. 

And the room around them is suddenly nothing but flames from every angle. Dean's breath actually chokes him for a second as he drags Sam to his feet, pocketing the EMF and the flashlight and shoving his shotgun into his waistband. But there's no-where to go, not even to the window, and Dean's pretty damn sure they are fucking _screwed_ as hell, when Sam closes one eye, grabs his temple, and exhales noisily. 

And right in front of the door, some of the flames go out, like they never existed, scorch marks on the floor the only indication that seconds ago it was a writhing mass of fire. 

Dean doesn't stop to ask Sam about it; there'll be time for that later. He just grabs Sam's forearm and pulls him forward, and then they're up on top of the furniture, heat chasing them with every step and movement forward, and Dean's pretty sure that this place is gonna burn to the ground. He only hopes they're not still inside when it happens. 

When they reach the staircase again, Dean takes one look backward just long enough to see the rotted flesh of the owners start to bubble and stink, and then he and Sam are going crashing down the stairs as fast as they can, boots ringing out loud on the wooden steps. 

By the time they make it out the front door, the whole second floor is engulfed, and rapidly spreading down towards the lower level. They sprint for the Impala, and even though Sam's still clearly reeling from whatever happened to him up there, he doesn't complain as he wrenches the door open and throws himself inside. 

Dean doesn't even wait for the door to fully close before backing out of the driveway in a screech of the tires, which hurts his heart to do to his baby, but what're you gonna do? They make their getaway before the cops can come and investigate, and Dean doesn't ask Sam about the malevolent spirit and whether it was still inside the house. 

But he can't stop himself from wondering if it was another yellow-eyed demon. 

And then Sam speaks, hoarsely from the smoke, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Dean, something's wrong." 

"Yeah, man, I know. It was kinda hard not to notice." 

"That's not what I mean." Sam looks out the window, apparently making eye contact with his reflection. 

"Sammy, look, it'll be okay. Whatever we did, we'll just take care of it. if it's a demon, we'll exorcise it." 

"Won't matter, Dean. The seal's broken." 

"She's gotta break sixty-six, Sam, we oughta be able to find at least one she can't break." 

"Out of six hundred? Face it, Dean, we're fucked." 

"Not gonna worry about that now, Sammy, sorry." Dean turns the car onto the road towards their motel. "What the hell happened up there?" 

"Try out there," Sam says, gloom in his voice. Outside the car, the wind is hurtling objects around, leaves and grass and other detritus, and it's still dark as pitch, like it's the middle of the night. 

"Well, dude, I'm sure Castiel will be around to gloat," Dean grumbles. "This sucks out loud, man." 

He pulls the car into the parking lot of the motel, throws open the car door and gets to his feet, fishing the key card out of his pocket. Next to him, Sam's just climbing out too, the duffel a forlorn lump at his feet. 

By the time they get into the room, there's a torrential rain falling, and Dean drops onto his bed with a hiss of breath, boots hanging over the edge. Sam doesn't lie down though, because after a minute or two his face fills Dean's field of vision. 

"Dean, you don't get it. _I_ did that." 

"Sammy, look, you had some kinda seizure or something, we'll--" 

"No, Dean, I've..." Sam shoves against Dean's shoulder hard, forces him over on the bed, and plasters himself to the bed, up on one elbow and staring down at Dean. "I've been noticing things. Like, I used to be able to control the dreams. Once I worked with, uh, Ruby, I got some influence over them, sometimes I could stop myself from having them. Not any more. Not even with all of the mastery I have over the powers now." 

Dean rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow too and stares at Sam hard. Sam's actually flushing a little in the lamplight. 

"Go on," he says carefully. Sam cringes a little but continues. 

"And when I exorcise demons, it's a lot easier than it used to be, even without practising, like the abilities are getting stronger." 

"So, maybe they are, you just keep on not--" 

"Dean, listen to me. Whatever happened in that room? My head was _killing_ me, like someone was taking a pick-axe to my skull repeatedly. And then I opened my eyes, and everything was orange, and when I blinked to clear them, everything was on fire. _I_ did that, Dean." 

That gets Dean's complete attention, and he sits straight up, so fast his head whirls a little. Sam doesn't look surprised as much as resigned. 

"What the _fuck,_ Sammy," is all Dean can manage to get out through a throat squeezed tight by anxiety. 

"You got me," Sam replies, though. "I don't understand it any better than you do." 

And then Castiel is standing in the middle of the room, looking gloomy and unhappy as per usual. 

"It's too late," he intones. "The seal has been broken, and this is just the beginning of the end, Dean." 

"And Sam? What's happening to him?" Dean demands, sliding off the bed and standing nose to nose with the angel. "What the fuck is going on?" 

Castiel looks mournfully over at Sam, then back to Dean. "I do not know." He spreads his hands, palms upward. "Might just be incidental." 

From the bed, Sam mumbles, "I'll believe that if you will," and Dean can't say as he really blames Sam much at all. 

"Sam's right. There's no way this was an accident. What happened, Castiel? That house--" 

"You have bigger things to worry about," Castiel says cryptically, and then he's gone, Dean standing and arguing with nothing. 

"Dude, I wish he wouldn't _do_ that," Dean grumbles, and then adds, "let's just get some sleep. Worry about whatever it is in the morning." 

"Dean, that's--" 

"Without knowing what's going on, Sam, there's nothing we can do. And we won't know what's going on until we let it start to happen." 

And happen it does. 

Dean falls asleep in Sam's bed because Sam refuses to get out of his own, and his last thought before he drifts under is that he's _starving_ , like he hasn't eaten enough in the last _week._

\--//--

When Dean wakes up, the sun is shining again, the downpour a thing of memory, and Sam's tapping away on his laptop. And as soon as Dean groans and stretches, Sam spears him with his eyes. 

"You're not hungry, are you, Dean?" he asks casually, or at least, it seems that way until Dean reads the glitter in those eyes and realises that he's even hungrier now than he was last night. 

"How'd you know?" he asks, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. Sammy looks a little strange in the sunlight, like his outline is blurred. His brother draws in a deep breath. 

"Famine," he says, turns the computer screen towards Dean. Dean scratches himself, ambles over close enough to look at the webpage, and then his eyes widen. 

"Famine," he repeats. "Not _the_ Famine." 

"Yes, Dean, _that_ Famine." 

"Fuck," Dean says succinctly. Sam nods a little ruefully. 

"It's a demon, as near as I can tell. But uh, yeah, one of the harbingers of the apocalypse." 

"Well, we knew the apocalypse was coming. So... y'know, Sammy, I bet Lilith tries to raise all of 'em. So all we gotta do is keep her from raising the rest of them." 

"I don't think we're gonna like it much if she summons Death," Sam mutters. "I don't fancy dying again, and I really don't want you to go that route again either. Not sure Castiel could help this time." 

"So, what? We got to that house just in time to watch -- er, listen -- to Famine get summoned? And now we're screwed?" 

"We're screwed unless we find the demon and exorcise it, Dean." 

"And how the _fuck_ are we gonna do that?" 

Sam flinches a little, cheeks glowing red. "I uh. I can track it, maybe." 

"Not with those freaky-ass mind powers," Dean says with finality. "We'll track it same as we always do, by following omens." 

"Dean, we don't have time." Sam throws his arms out wide. "You have any idea how this works? It starts with a little hunger, but in a matter of _hours_ people start dropping from starvation. We can't risk it. We don't have time. We already wasted--" 

"Well, I'm sorry!" Dean explodes, trying not to think about how it's all his fault _again_. "I didn't know, Sam, dammit." 

"I'm not blaming you, Dean, I'm just trying to point out--" 

"Point taken, Sam. But we are _not_ going to use your powers, because you know what--" 

"We don't have _time_ , Dean. And you can't stop me." 

Dean tucks his fingers under, holds up his fist. "Watch me." 

"Dean, dude, if you knock me unconscious, how will you deal with the demon?" 

Dean kind of hates the fact that Sam is right. Kind of hates it a lot. "Sure, fine. Whatever." 

And Sam closes his eyes. 

\--//--

They make it to the three-story clapboard house just in time to see the young woman who works as a cleaning lady come bursting out the front door, shrieking at the top of her lungs and being followed by a man in a suit, walking purposefully behind her. 

And then he halts, eyes trained on Sam and Dean. Dean forces himself to stand his ground, even though this guy is oozing evil like it's a viscous black oil under his feet. And his eyes -- yeah, they're black all right, and Dean is less than pleased that he has to admit Sam was right, because if they had gotten here any later that young woman would probably be dead. 

Which is right about when Dean doubles over in pain, suddenly so hungry and dizzy he can't see straight, arm wrapped around his belly trying to ease some of the intense ache. 

Sam's not brought in half by the pain, though; Sam's staring at the stranger, mouth moving silently, and Dean hopes like crazy that Sam's reciting the exorcism ritual, sticking to the plan, and that's about when Dean feels his whole body go weightless, flying backward, and hears, distantly, the thunderous quality of Sam's voice as he yells, " _Dean!_ " 

Dean can barely hear or feel anything any more, stomach cramping wildly, brain fuzzing in and out, eyes slitted open and fixed on the black obsidian eyes of the demon, and Dean wonders, briefly, if he's going to die, right now, of the pain lancing through him. 

And then Sam puts his palm out, fingers spread, and Dean wants to scream, to land a right hook on Sam's jaw before he can do what he's so clearly planning to do, but it's right about there that he loses consciousness. 

He comes to with Sam kneeling next to him, hands running over his face, and the first thing he notices is that the agony of hunger is gone, replaced by the dull distant throb that means he hasn't eaten breakfast, but not that he's about to die any second. 

"You stupid fucker," he says weakly to Sam as his brother helps him back to his feet. "I thought we discussed--" 

"Dean, I'm not going to let you die," Sam says, cutting off his tirade. "It's done, anyway. The demon is gone." 

"From your _brain_ ," Dean can't resist adding snidely. Sam doesn't react, not even a roll of his eyes or the swagger of his lips when he thinks Dean's not looking. 

"C'mon, let's get breakfast," he says instead. "I could eat." 

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "I could, too." 

\--//--

_When Dean was seven years old, Sammy was still just a toddler, and John had once, just once when they were that young, gone out and given Dean an order._

_"Feed Sammy dinner and don't leave him alone," John had said, and Dean had nodded solemnly, perfectly prepared to follow those instructions to the letter._

_Sam didn't want the canned soup Dad had left in the microwave to be reheated, and Dean was too little to use the stove, he knew that. So he took his own dinner, the hamburger that John had cooked for him before he left, and cut it up into tiny pieces, feeding each one to Sam on the tines of Sammy's favourite fork, the one with the dinosaur on the end._

_Sammy went to sleep listening to Dean read one of his schoolbooks, because they didn't have any other books; Dad had gotten rid of those a long time ago when they'd moved in a hurry._

_But there was something strange about his little brother, and as Dean watched Sammy sleep, his little chest going up and down with his breath, he wondered why his baby brother always looked so worried with his eyes closed. Dean, though, went to bed hungry, curled up around Sam with his arms wrapped up in Sam's, and even though at one point in the middle of the night he thought he vaguely heard the door, he didn't wake up._

_But Dad didn't come back the next day, and he'd made Dean swear that he wouldn't go outside, that he would feed Sammy, that he would keep Sammy safe._

_Dean didn't eat for three days that week, because every evening he scrounged something out of the refrigerator for Sammy, even if it was just dry bread, until there was nothing left but juice and milk, and Dean was smart, knew that he should drink plenty of water, all the while he gave the juice and milk to Sam._

_Daddy never said where he went or why he was gone so long, but he brought them both fast food when he got back, and Dean swore then and there that was the best food he'd ever tasted._


	2. Chapter 2

**part two**

_Everyone expected it to be a shroud of darkness, a filthy disease wrought upon mankind by the foulest creature imaginable. No one expected the silver shine of heartless eyes, the cool silvery light fluid and settling over everything, the deceptive promise of health and wealth and beauty._

_The young woman leans down over the baby's crib, and it gurgles at her._

_The pillow is soft and fluffy in her hands, her smile sweet._

\--//--

Dean's dreaming. He's never had this dream before, Sam larger than life in front of him, smiling in a way that Dean's never seen, his eyes black. It's too terrifyingly much like when Sam was possessed by Meg, and Dean struggles against the nylon threads of sleep tying him into the dream, snapping them one by one and opening his eyes, gasping hot in his bed, sweat standing out all over his skin. 

Sammy's asleep in the other bed, looking soft and relaxed, but Dean can't help but think back to what Sam told him only a few days ago: he set a fire with his mind. Dean shivers, despite the heat of the nightmare still lingering in his pores, and puts both feet on the floor. Right about now he needs a beer, maybe two; he needs to forget that Sam can do impossible things and what that might mean for both of them. 

The mini fridge is rumbling asthmatically, which is a little worrisome, but Dean grabs a beer and pops the top with the edge of his silver ring, brings the cool mouth of the glass bottle to his lips and takes a long swallow. Behind him, there's the gentle rustle of sheets sliding against skin, the creak of springs protesting Sam's weight, followed by the sleepy husky tone of Sam's voice. 

"Whatsamatter, Dean?" his brother asks, and Dean settles himself on the floor next to the mini fridge, cross-legged, beer held loosely between two fingers. Sam's hair is sticking up every which way, like he's been tossing and turning all night. 

"Nothin'," Dean replies, though. "Jus' wanted a beer, is all." 

Sam flicks a glance at the shining red numbers cutting through the darkness. "It's three a.m., Dean, and while I know you love your booze, even you usually don't--" 

"I couldn't sleep. It's not cause for interrogation, Sam, so don't start." 

"Yeah, well." Sam rubs one eye absentmindedly, then slides out of his own bed. He comes and drops down next to Dean, long legs folded up, and puts out a hand. Dean reaches into the mini fridge and snags another beer for Sam, pops the cap, passes it over. Sam smiles a little and drinks it slowly, like he's savouring it. 

Dean leans back against the wall, looking at nothing, trying not to remember Sam's expression, the pain writ clear across his features like blood, when they were barricaded by furniture in a house possessed by a demon. 

"Lilith's about eighty steps ahead of us," Sam says softly. "She's breaking seals we don't even know exist, and she's too canny to leave enough of an imprint for me to track her." 

"That's just as well," Dean says, and takes another long pull of his beer. "I don't want you using those powers, Sammy. You know as well as I do what Uriel said." 

"I wish I'd never told you that," Sam mutters, still drinking his beer like he's trying to make it last forever. "In any event, Dean, if it meant I could wipe her out, stop the coming war, I would. I'd do anything to make sure she doesn't win out in the end." 

"It's not worth going any farther down that road," Dean points out. "You're just digging yourself deeper and deeper into a hole, Sammy. Nothing good can come out of that." 

Sam sets his beer down in his lap, gives Dean his most earnest look. Dean hates that look; it usually presages Sam explaining himself so persuasively that Dean finds himself agreeing no matter how much he's sworn not to. 

"Dean," Sam says, and now he's using _that_ voice, too, the one that he uses on skittish eyewitnesses. "I can handle it. You know I can." 

But Dean stares into eyes more familiar than his own, feels his vocal cords grind together as he speaks: 

"We don't know that, Sam. You said it yourself, the abilities are getting stronger." His throat clicks as he swallows. 

"It's _me_ , Dean, remember? I'm more stubborn than Dad. I can take care of it. I _save_ people, Dean; it's too important not to try." 

Dean smothers his retort with a splash of beer to lubricate his throat, keeps staring into those eyes and wondering what happens if Sammy goes too far. 

Sam twirls his own beer round and round between his fingers, then gets to his feet and plunks it down on top of the mini fridge. 

"I'm going back to bed, Dean. Don't stay up too late, you need to stay sharp." 

Dean nods, watches Sam burrow back under the cheap blankets, and finishes off his beer. He stretches over and retrieves Sam's abandoned beer, brings it to his lips. Right this moment he needs the alcohol more than he needs sleep, because even though he can't see anything more than a Sammy-shaped lump right now, he can't stop thinking back to every time he's seen Sam use his powers, like when he exorcised Samhain. Dean gulps down the beer faster, picturing Sam's eyes and wondering: did they flash black? Is it already too late? 

"It's a stupid dangerous game," he mutters into the uncaring darkness. "And you don't know where you're going." 

He drinks the last of the beer and lines up the two empty bottles, rises to his feet and stumbles over to his bed, barely buzzed but reluctant to go back to sleep and dream about Sammy losing himself to the powers, becoming someone else. 

But that would never happen. Sam could never change that much. 

He doesn't really mean to fall back to sleep, but the bed is warm against the late-night chill and the quiet rasp of Sam's breathing lulls him back under. 

The following morning is so bright Dean actually rummages around until he finds his sunglasses. Sam's apparently in the shower, from the sound of water running, so Dean sprawls out in the armchair and waits for his brother to finish up in the bathroom so he can take a piss. While he does, he scans the screen on Sam's laptop with half his attention, until something catches his eye. 

He sits up straight and scrolls down the page. Another report of lights flickering, of strange noises, of people disappearing unexpectedly. It sounds like their kind of gig, and worse, it's a lot reminiscent of the gig they just checked out. Fuck. Dean's not quite ready for another broken seal, and maybe this is nothing, maybe it's just a spirit or your run of the mill low-classed demon, but somehow, Dean doesn't think that's the case. 

"We should check it out," Sam says from behind him, making Dean jump in surprise. Sam's wiping water out of his ears with a corner of the towel, lips slightly quirked. "Found it this morning, it's only a couple of towns over. Frankly, I think Lilith is playing cat-and-mouse with us." 

Dean swallows against his dry throat. "What makes you say that?" 

"Because she probably knows just where we are. You don't seriously think it's coincidence that that's so close by?" Sam drops the edge of the towel, starts riffling through his duffel for clean clothes. If he even has any. 

"If she knows where we are, Sam, why doesn't she just try to kill us -- again?" Dean taps his fingers on the laptop, still half focused on the newspaper article Sam has pulled up. 

"Well, for one, she can't kill me. She's tried, and even her white light of doom did nothing. And two, she probably doesn't wanna get too close to us personally, because for whatever reason, she seems afraid of me." Sam tugs a short-sleeved t-shirt over his head, shaking his head once he's got it on, water droplets flying everywhere from the edges of his long hair. 

"Seriously, dude. Lilith is afraid of _you_?" Dean can't resist the jab. Sam grins at that, though, not fazed at all. 

"I don't get it either, man. She just -- bailed. Like she thought I could do some sort of damage to her, though what, I have no fucking clue. I couldn't even begin to _irritate_ Alistair, much less actually exorcise him. And Lilith -- I think she's gotta be even more powerful than that." Sam shoves his foot into the leg of his jeans, yanking them up over his slender hips and buttoning them, hair still dripping down the back of his t-shirt. 

"I wouldn't underestimate Alistair," Dean remarks darkly. Sam laughs. 

"I'm not, Dean, don't worry. I know he was a badass. I'm just sayin', Lilith is the head honcho for a reason. The demons are actually following her for a reason." 

"Yeah, and she's pining for your blood for a reason," Dean says. "Why does she want you dead?" 

"Probably for the same reason Azazel wanted me alive," Sam says, shrugging. "He had a purpose for me, apparently, whatever it was. She's the opposite; she has no purpose for me, and seems to see me as competition, although why, I have no fucking idea. It's not like I _want_ to lead an army of demons and wreak death and destruction across the land." 

"So what's with taunting us? Why set herself up for a chance to fail?" 

"Because she's an arrogant bitch," Sam says. "She wants to stick it to us by doing it right underneath our noses." 

"So we go over to this town, open a can of whoop-ass on her plan, and stop her from breaking the seal," Dean remarks decisively. He stands up, intending to snag the bathroom for his own morning ablutions, when Sam turns around. For a split second the sun flows in one long ray across Sam's eyes as he's moving, and Dean stops dead, sure that he caught sight of a tinge of golden in the hazel. 

Which is stupid, because his dreams last night weren't about yellow eyes, so if he's gonna be seeing things, he oughta be seeing-- 

Dean butchers that train of thought violently, forces himself to remember that demon blood doesn't automatically equal demon, and goes into the bathroom, slams the door. He washes his face, old sweat still on his skin, and through the cheap plywood he can hear Sam talking on his cell phone, probably either inquiring about the new case, or calling up Bobby to ask for his opinion on things. 

Dean lifts the toilet seat with his foot, and just as he unzips, he catches a glimpse of something in the mirror, nearly kills himself turning around, and there's Castiel, looking anxious and somewhat constipated, as usual. 

"Dude, _fuck_ ," Dean gasps. "D'you gotta show up and freak the shit out of people? Like, I coulda easily pissed myself just now." 

"Sorry about that, Dean. But you--" 

"Dude, I swear to Go-- I mean, I swear, you tell us we gotta stop it again, and I'll piss on your shoes. I _know_ that already." 

"Dean, it is imperative that the seal remain unbroken. I've only heard rumblings, but none of it's good." 

"Sammy and I are gonna take care of it," Dean assures Castiel. "Whatever she's got planned, we'll stop it." 

"This isn't a game, Dean Winchester. Those seals break and it's all over. And, Dean? Don't get too comfortable up there on your high horse. Because if Lucifer walks the earth again, you'll be faced with challenges the like you've never encountered before. Pleasure in torturing souls in Hell is one thing, Dean. Don't derive pleasure from it on earth too." 

That sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach is just hunger, truly. 

"I'm not that person," Dean argues, but the acid in his stomach roils anyway. It's one thing to say that out loud. It's another thing entirely to remember what it was like, to wonder if the situation were right that he'd do it again. 

Dean forces himself to think about Sam, who even when faced with his own shortcomings, never fails to rise above them. To remember that nothing can alter who Sam is on a fundamental level. 

"Tell your brother what you learned, Dean. Now is not the time for keeping secrets." 

"I'm not that person," Dean repeats. "I don't torture people for the joy of it." 

"You might be certain of that now," Castiel says, "but now is not then. You don't want to face up to that man, Dean." 

All of a sudden it seems like Castiel is saying something else, some underlying meaning beneath his words, but Dean can't piece it together, and when he looks up again, Castiel is gone. He takes his time in the bathroom, spends as long in the shower as he can before the hot water starts to run out, and tries not to think too deeply about what Castiel was saying. 

It's not true. Even if Lilith succeeds, Dean's not going to do that again. _Nothing_ can shake the foundations of that resolve. 

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, there's steam chasing him out and billowing into the room, and Sam is fully dressed, his hair curling up at his collar as it dries, and the laptop is still open on the table. 

There's a box of doughnuts and a cup of coffee next to Sam, and his brother looks up and smiles when Dean plants himself in one of the hard wooden chairs and begins to inhale his morning coffee. 

"Thought you might need some artificial energy," Sam remarks, snapping the laptop lid closed. "When you finish that, I thought we could get moving. It shouldn't take more than two hours to get where we're going, and I get the feeling that we need to haul ass, anyway." 

"Ran into Castiel in the bathroom," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of doughnut. "Kinda wish the guy would travel like a normal person." 

"He's an angel, Dean, I doubt he knows what it's like to be a normal person," Sam points out pedantically, and Dean just barely manages not to roll his eyes. 

"I know that, genius," he says. "Still, though, I like to take my morning piss in private." 

"Dude!" Sam looks scandalised at that, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. " _Please_ tell me you did not do that in front of Castiel." 

As entertaining as it would be to let Sam go on thinking that, Dean shakes his head ruefully. "Nah, I didn't. But it was a close thing. You think we could hang a bell on him or something?" 

"Not sure that would help," Sam says. "Anyway, you about ready?" 

"Go on and load up the Impala," Dean says. "I'll be right out, just as soon as I finish up with my doughnut." 

Sam nods, stands up and starts collecting their belongings. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. We'll take care of it." 

Somehow, Sam echoing his earlier words isn't reassuring at all. 

They drive into town in mid-afternoon, and it doesn't really look like a place that should be haunted by demons, little and quaint and the main street cuts through the centre of the town. Sam's driving because Dean's got a headache, hiding behind sunglasses and wondering if he's hungover or if it's something else, and when Sam pulls up to the curb and throws the hand-brake, he sits back, just shading his eyes as he looks through the windshield. 

"General store?" Sam asks, indicating the weather-beaten sign creaking in the wind. Dean nods, adjusts his sunglasses. 

"You wanna flirt with the cute chick, or should I?" he asks flippantly, figuring Sam's gonna turn that down. 

"Have at it," Sam says dryly, and Dean grins. Sammy's so predictable. 

"You have any idea where ground zero is?" Dean asks. 

"No idea, but here's hoping the girl inside has some intel to share." Sam pushes the front door open and it jingles merrily, causing the petite brunette to look up. She looks startled for a second, then smiles cheerfully and waves them over. 

"What can I help you boys with?" And then she gives them a sly grin, like she knows something they don't. Dean gets that uncomfortable feeling that usually accompanies someone misreading his relationship with Sam, and quickly turns the charm up a notch, leaning on one elbow on the counter and getting up close in her personal space, his lips curving flirtatiously. 

"We're kind of like, thrill seekers," he says in a low voice, like he's letting her in on a great secret. "And we heard that there's a haunting in this town, and just had to check it out." From behind him Sam clears his throat and jumps in. 

"We've been travelling the United States just looking for interesting ghost stories. You wouldn't happen to know any, would you--?" 

"Lacey," she fills in. "Yeah, actually, you know what? It's so weird." She snaps her gum and tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Dean's kind of disappointed that she's probably still a teenager, too young for him, for all that she's cute and has really nice teeth. 

"The weirder, the better," Dean says, though. He notices her staring, and wonders if she likes what she sees. Maybe he can get her number anyway, if he can figure out a way to assess her age without being too obvious. 

"Well, y'know, I've lived here my whole life, and there's never been anything like this around here before. There's an old farmhouse down the road, right? And there's a little unofficial cemetery behind it, because it's belonged to the same family for generations and they've always buried their dead there. In the last week, though, it's like it's haunted something crazy. Kids from the local high school are usually down there drinking, you know? Nothing like a good spooky place to try and get a girl wasted and see if you can get her to take off her pants." 

"Bet a good girl like you wouldn't take off her pants in a cemetery," Dean interjects smoothly. She laughs a little, puts both her elbows on the counter and leans forward, setting off her killer tan in the sunlight and putting her breasts on display in the push-up bra under the half-unbuttoned baseball tee she's wearing. 

"Nah, I haven't been there in years," she says, and Dean can almost hear Sammy's eye roll as his brother figures out just what Dean's up to. He hopes to be up to no good later tonight, maybe a little celebration if they can keep the seal from breaking. 

"Go on," Sam says, though, and she looks over Dean's shoulder at him. 

"Well, couple nights ago Jerry Mitchell and Sari Princeton were heading down there -- the farmhouse is deserted now, family's all dead -- and Jerry swears that there were lights on in the house. And then when they got to the cemetery, he says all of the tombstones were _glowing_. Weird, huh? And not like it's ever been haunted before, so who knows. If I were you, though, I'd wait till dark if you want to see a ghost." 

"Just weird lights?" Sam asks, and Dean's a little bit ashamed of the fact that he's focusing more on her chest than her story. 

"Well, Jerry says he just saw the lights, but Sari claims she heard someone chanting among the headstones, and he keeps swearing that it was probably just kids trying to scare people, but you know how it is. Ghost stories. No-one ever knows if they're true or not, anyway." 

"Did Sari say what language the person was chanting in?" Dean snags the thread of the conversation, carries it forward, and she gives him another appreciative smile. 

"Well, she swears up and down that it wasn't any language she'd ever heard, and she'd know, she's been all over the world. Her parents are really rich." 

"Were there any strange smells? Scratching, like rats in the underbrush?" Sam sounds supremely unconcerned, and Dean feels a little bit sorry for Lacey, because her hometown is now apparently the hot house for a demon's sadistic games. 

"Yeah, you know? I was walking by the farmhouse on my way home last night and I heard scratching in the walls. I just figured it _was_ rats, because it's abandoned." 

"Lacey, when did the people who lived there die?" Sam says in his most soothing, soft voice. 

"Well, the original family's been gone for years, but they rented it out not long ago to this adorable young couple, two really pretty guys. They were like, crazy in love. And then all of a sudden they just cleared out, no forwarding address, no-one even saw them move." 

"Are you sure they moved out?" Dean says, a bad feeling suddenly permeating his entire body. This doesn't bode well -- if those two are dead, they could have been sacrifices, the catalyst to the seal that's perilously close to breaking. 

"Well, n-no," she says, sounding really uncertain. "But I mean, no-one's seen them in a week, and they used to stop in here every day. Real nice, too. Friendly-like. They'd come in and just look around, make conversation. I got the feeling they were trying to make friends in town. You know, now that I think about it, I got the impression they were planning to stay awhile." 

"And then one day they just stopped showing up?" Dean tries not to seem alarmed to her, and when she flashes him another smile, he's pretty sure he succeeded. He exchanges a look with Sam, who's also clearly concerned. 

"It's the weirdest thing, you're right. I mean, why go to all that trouble and then move away?" 

"Maybe they didn't," Dean says in a low voice, directed at Sam. Her eyes widen. 

"Do you think they're okay? You think they're sick?" 

"Listen, Lacey, no matter what you see or hear tonight, when you go home? Stay home. Don't go out for anything." 

"Why? I thought you just wanted to see--" 

"'Cause some spirits are dangerous, like to hurt people, and I don't want to see you get hurt. C'mon, Sam, I think we need to find a motel room." Dean gives her one last searching look. "You have a place we could stay?" 

"There's a bed and breakfast a few storefronts down," she says, leaning over the counter around Dean and pointing. "Mostly single rooms with one bed, though, hope that's not a problem." 

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam as soon as she's not looking. 

"Hey, Lacey, thanks for your help," Sammy says in that same pretty voice. He's out the door and leaning against the Impala by the time that Dean takes the cash register receipt with her phone number scrawled on the back and pushes out into the sunlight again. He tears open the candy bar he bought with his teeth and takes a bit bite. 

"So it's either the farmhouse or the cemetery," Dean says through his mouth full of candy, swinging the driver's side door open. He's just about to slide onto the bench seat when the sun cuts out like a light switch has been flipped. He intercepts a worried look from Sam, and as one they head for the trunk of the Impala. Dean props open the trunk and the false bottom and starts gathering up shotguns and holy water flasks, but it's already too late. 

The wind kicks up, leaves whirling in the street, and all around them the air is filled with an ominous rumbling, not like thunder, but like words spoken in a voice too deep to make out, in a language too ancient to understand. Sam looks frantically towards the general store, and Dean is torn between running inside to warn Lacey to get down and stay down, and in fighting off whatever's coming. 

He stands up, shotgun ready, Sam at his side, and hopes that whatever they're about to face it's not immune to rock salt. And then Sam grabs his head, hand like a claw against his temple, and collapses to his knees, unbalanced and colliding with Dean's own legs. 

Dean barely manages to keep his footing, and, after giving the street a once-over, follows Sam to the ground and grabs his shoulders, trying not to shake his brother, but at the same time trying to get Sam to tell him what's wrong. 

But Sammy isn't speaking, at least, not anything Dean can comprehend. He's clutching at his head with both hands now, eyes screwed shut, mouth working loose around unfamiliar sounds, and Dean's abruptly terrified. He was raised to deal with anything supernatural that came his way, but he's never been prepared for _this_ : watching Sam writhe in pain from something Dean can't possibly understand. And he doesn't know what's going on right this second, but he'd lay odds on it being a very, very bad thing, particularly the way Sam's not responding to any kind of outside stimulus. 

He's not hearing Dean's frantic words, he's not reacting to the wind buffeting his face and hair with little pebbles, he doesn't even seem to be conscious any more. Dean tries to pry his fingers away from his face, but Sam just shakes him off, twisting out of Dean's grip and falling the rest of the way onto the ground, legs drawn up and sweat pouring down his face. 

Dean's about to man handle Sam back into the Impala when he hears the low growl of whatever's making that racket again, and he flings himself to his feet, shotgun pointed straight ahead, wondering if what's coming is going to be a demon or something worse, and he's just about to fire at the dark, winged shape approaching when the dust clears a little, exposing Castiel. He looks pissed. 

"You might as well put the gun down, Dean," Castiel says. "You're not in time." 

"It's -- it's broken? We ran our asses into the ground trying to get here in time." 

"I'm afraid so," Castiel says. "The best you can hope for now is to stop it. I just came to warn you: do not be taken in." 

"Taken in? By what? What the fuck does that even mean?" Dean shouts, but the dust fills in the air around him again, thick and impenetrable, and Dean doesn't have to look around him to know that Castiel's already gone. 

He turns back to Sam, only to find Sam's eyes open and fixed on him. His brother's pale, sweat still making tracks down his dirty cheeks, and he's winded, breathing heavily, arms wrapped around his stomach like he's in pain. Dean's not sure why the pain would be in his stomach now when a second ago it seemed to be lancing through his brain, but he's relatively certain that now is not the time to ask questions. 

And then, as if nothing had happened at all, the street clears completely and the sun flares back to life around them. Sam stumbles back to his feet, picks up his sawed-off, the little flask of holy water he'd been holding, and scans the area around them. 

"I think we're too late," he says, and his voice is thready. "So. Check in, regroup?" 

"I think the shit just officially hit the fan," Dean agrees. "Yeah, we need to get a room, and I need to check out your head. See if you have a concussion or something, cause you keep, like, passing out." 

Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine for now, Dean, we can worry about that later. Right now we need to set up a headquarters and see if we can figure out what we're dealing with." 

Dean replaces his weapon in the trunk, and Sam does likewise, and then they get into the car at the same time, almost like a choreographed dance. 

They do wind up in a room with a single bed, but it also has a gorgeous chintz sofa, and knowing Sam's propensity to sweat like a whore in church, Dean claims the couch and then shoves Sam down onto the bed, elbows on his knees, and gets out his pen light. 

He searches Sam's eyes, but there's no sign of anything wrong, no problem with the way that his pupils react, and Dean's forced to concede that whatever's going on with Sam, it doesn't appear to be physiological. Sam snorts and lowers his head, hair falling into his eyes, and Dean gets the impression that Sam's trying to hide the fact that he's rolling his eyes at Dean. 

"Does your head still hurt?" Dean asks, putting the pen light down on the little antique table by the bed. Sam looks down at the cover on the bed, grimaces. It's a muddle of white and pink, and Dean can't quite obscure the snicker that escapes because Sam's gonna be sleeping in all that frill and lace. 

"Nah, Dean, I'm fine. But--" 

They hear it at the same time, a loud report like a gun shot. Sam glances at Dean, and Dean gazes back, and then they both jump to their feet, run for the window. But when they pull aside the curtains, there's no-one outside. Dean shrugs one-shouldered, sits down on the window-seat. Sam sits down next to him, and Dean starts to feel a little strange. 

Why the fuck is Sam sitting so close? And he's breathing so loud, and he smells kinda funny, like he hasn't showered in a month. Why doesn't he take better care not to fucking annoy the living hell out of anyone who has to be near him? 

"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean snarls out of the blue, surprising himself with the depth of his anger. He hauls back and slugs Sam in the jaw. "You're such an insensitive _prick_ ," he says bitterly. 

Sam's fingers go to his mouth, lower lip bleeding a little, and he gives Dean a funny look. 

"Dude, what's your problem?" he asks, and then his face changes, darkens. "Did it ever occur to you not to be such a fucking ass? I mean, you're a dick, Dean; you can't walk by a girl without relegating her to the same level as meat in a packing plant." 

And, dammit, but Sam sounds furious, which is just as well, because Dean's really fucking angry too. He's about to punch Sam again when Sam stands up, strides away from Dean, only turning back to face him with his pistol trained on Dean's chest. 

Dean leaps to his feet and yanks his own pearl-handled handgun out of his waistband, fixes it muzzle first, pointing at Sam's broad chest, such an easy target. 

"Don't talk about things you don't understand!" Dean yells, waving the gun recklessly through the air. "It's like when I talk about Hell, and you act all like you think you could ever _possibly_ fucking get what I went through, but you can't. You can't ever get a fucking clue, Sam, never ever be even fucking _close_. So maybe you should stop pretending to be all sympathetic, giving me those pitying looks and lying through your teeth about how I didn't deserve what I got, or how I ain't a bad person, because--" 

Sam waves his gun back at Dean, just as expansively and expressively. 

"Well, maybe you _did_ deserve it, Dean! You're the fucking moron who traded your life for mine, I never asked you to do that, I didn't _want_ you to do that, and frankly, Dean, I'd rather be dead! I don't wanna live this fucking life any more, constantly followed around by bad memories and worse experiences, chased by demons and--" 

"You think your life is hard? Try spending your _entire fucking life_ looking after your stupid baby brother, who can't do a thing for himself and is too selfish to stay with his _family_ , where he _belongs,_ and--" 

"Wait, wait!" Sam's had his own gun pointed somewhere between Dean and himself, but he lowers it all of a sudden, raising his other hand and stepping backward several paces. "Something's not right, Dean; I wasn't angry at you ten minutes ago." 

The anger doesn't really recede, but something about Sam's voice, something silky in his tone, soothes some of Dean's fervour, cuts like a knife through the red haze surrounding his perception, and he lowers his own pistol. 

"Yeah, me either," he says slowly, and Sam cocks an eyebrow, grabs the TV remote and switches it on to the local news channel. 

_And in other news, there's been a stabbing just outside the general store, the girl responsible is quoted as saying 'I just couldn't see straight all of a sudden, I wanted that parking space and that asshole took it.' No word yet on what caused the unexpected outburst, as the girl has never been violent before in her life. There's also been a report of several gun shots on Main Street, although no injuries have yet been reported. We'll keep you updated as new developments come in, but I ask you, is it a full moon tonight or something?_

Sam focuses so intently on Dean it's almost frightening, and says in that same silky tone, "Put the gun down, Dean. I think I know what we're dealing with, and we're on the same page." 

Dean finds himself putting down the gun like he's not even thinking about it, watching Sam as his brother stows his own gun in the back of his pants. "So what is it, then?" 

"Probably War," Sam says, voice more rough than before. "Gotta be another demon, I think, and this is definitely not normal. We have to do something before someone kills somebody else, or worse, before everyone explodes into insanity and a lot of people die. I'm going to need my tracking abilities, Dean." 

"No fucking way," Dean says, and the anger is still simmering inside him. "That's another thing, Sam, you--" 

"Dean, no time to argue, seriously. This might start small-scale, in one town on the map, but I bet it doesn't take long to spread, to turn into wars between countries, Dean. The more chaos and havoc this demon can wreak, the happier it'll be." 

"And Lilith? Was she here?" Dean tamps down on the fury still struggling to escape and tries to think rationally, which is somehow easier to do with Sam in the room. 

"If she was, she's gone, and she's still miles ahead of us, Dean." 

"So what do we do?" 

"We exorcise War and hope to God that she doesn't raise Pestilence or Death." 

"Fuck," Dean mutters. "We are so fucked." 

Sam starts gathering up their things, re-tying his shoes and hefting the duffel bag. "C'mon, Dean, I think I know where we have to go, and I don't think you're gonna like it much." 

Dean's stomach jumps with anxiety, falling through the floor in realisation. 

"Lacey?" he asks. Sam nods shortly, and they head out. 

When they get back to the general store, there's a crowd of people and police milling around, and they slip into the store and she's standing at the counter, hip against the glass, wearing a half-smile. 

"Ah, the Winchester boys," she says lazily. "I can't say as I'm surprised to see you." 

"Is this fun for you?" Dean snarls, the anger flaring up again, but before he can rush her, she puts out a palm and he goes flying up against the wall. 

"Well, actually, yes. This _is_ fun, but I have to say, it's _such_ a treat to meet you boys. Lilith sends her regards, by the way." 

"And were you in Lacey when we talked to her earlier?" Dean says fiercely. Sam's quiet, and Dean doesn't know why, but he feels strangely like he should keep her talking. 

"Nah, not at first. But you were so pretty, Dean, I wanted to get a piece of that gorgeous juicy ass that you spread around so freely." 

"Shut up, bitch," Dean hurls at her, straining against the psychic bonds holding him in place. And then her eyes shift away from him, and he can't turn his head, but he doesn't need to in order to know that she's looking at Sam now. 

"And pretty little Sammy Winchester too," she says coquettishly. "I have to wonder just what makes you so special, honestly." 

"That's enough talking," Sam says, and his voice has that strange tonal quality to it again. Dean finds himself suddenly willing to do whatever Sam says, and it's really odd, but the demon doesn't speak again, almost as if she's just as susceptible to what Sam just said. Which is peculiar, but he doesn't really have time to dwell on it, because lovely young Lacey throws a hand up to her throat and starts to puke up black smoke, which is a damn good indication that Sam's doing just what he _promised not to do_. 

Dean is going to give that kid a stern talking to when this is all over. 

And then she's falling, but Sam lunges forward and catches her before she can hit the floor. He looks up at Dean apologetically, then lowers her carefully and checks her pulse. 

"I think she's gonna be fine," he says, and then something outside the window catches his eye. "Uh oh, I think the cops are headed this way. We better make ourselves scarce." 

Dean can move again, so he nods, straightens his clothes and they move toward the back of the store, hoping that Lacey will be all right in the ensuing chaos. They slip into the Impala and luckily everyone is so busy trying to make heads or tails of what's happening that they don't notice the very distinctive car as it pulls away. 

Dean dials emergency on his cell phone and reports the possibility of a homicide in the farmhouse, hoping that maybe he's wrong and those two guys are still alive, but doubting it nonetheless. He hangs up before they can ask for his name, though; there's no need to make it easy to trace them. 

Later that night, holed on up the couch listening to Sam breathing with that same slight rasp, Dean thinks back on the day they had and comes to the conclusion that there's something Sam's not telling him. Something important, he thinks, as sleep overwhelms him with its sweet siren song. 

_When Dean was twelve years old, he thought it would be funny to sneak into Sam's room while Sam was sleeping, twitch back the covers, and use permanent marker to connect all of the moles on Sam's skin._

_Sam didn't think it was nearly so funny the following morning, storming off into the shower yelling about insensitive pricks for older brothers, and Dean laughed himself sick at the table, eating bacon and eggs that he'd made himself -- and burned, sadly -- while John searched the newspaper for hunts._

_Sammy was still young enough that he didn't know about hunting back then, and so Dean felt important and special as John ran scenarios by him about where they should go next and whether something sounded like it needed checking out by their own personal brand of investigation._

_When Sammy came out of the shower, scrubbed bright red with faint marker lines still traversing his skin, he scowled at Dean and refused to speak to him throughout breakfast, even though Dean had cooked Sammy's too -- and had given him the bacon that wasn't charred and really only fit for the trash can._

_John had looked up just long enough to remark on the tattoo lines on Sam's collarbone, before giving Dean a slightly admonishing look and then returning to his perusal of the paper._

_Sammy hadn't forgiven Dean for that for weeks, insisting every time they had an argument how traumatic it had been to go to school like that, even though Dean hadn't been completely heartless: he'd avoided Sammy's face, after all._

_But that contention between them had actually lasted for months. Dean sometimes wished he hadn't given into the temptation to do it, because it had made Sammy angry with him, but more than that, it had made Sam sad, and even though it was still hilariously funny, Dean did feel kind of bad about upsetting Sammy so much._

_He thought, though, that Sam's real anger was actually directed at their father because John didn't punish Dean, which he admittedly deserved. But then, in those days, Sam always thought that whatever John did was with the intention of ruining his life._

_Dean had never been able to convince Sam that he was the lucky one, the pampered child, the child who didn't have to learn about demons and monsters when he was all of four years old and had the responsibility of his younger brother thrust on him. Couldn't explain to Sam that Dad loved him best, had protected him in every single way he could, right down to making Dean the human shield that would always step in front of Sam if it seemed even slightly necessary._

_Of course, Dean hadn't known at the time just_ how _special Sammy was, that Sam had been given the blood of a demon and turned into something less than human, although Dean would always be the first to say it didn't matter, that Sam was still the better person, still the one who deserved good things. But it wouldn't be fair to say, any more, that_ Sam _was the lucky one._

 _Sam didn't go through a moody period like that again until he was thirteen, and it felt like it lasted forever, right up until he left for college after a screaming match with both John_ and _Dean that Dean had never forgotten._


	3. Chapter 3

**part three**

_Silvery eyes. Silvery hair. This young man is something otherworldly, and the woman in front of him bows down, long blonde hair falling across her face, and puts her palms together like a prayer._

_He doesn't waste any time, and in the distance, lightning strikes as he puts one hand on the top of her head._

_She whispers, hands still clasped, and he begins to speak._

_Every word is a benediction, spoken in a voice not heard for centuries. But she remembers, and turns her face up. Receives his blessing._

_He smiles, fingers trailing through her hair._

\--//--

It's too silent in the room. Ever since Dean got back from Hell, moments like this fill him with foreboding, even if it's the only way Sam can sleep, and Dean has to force himself not to get up and turn the TV on just for the background noise. 

It would seem strange, like screams and cries for help would make it worse, but Dean loves horror movies more than ever now, the violence and gore and titties, and maybe that's why, because he knows that shit on the TV isn't real. It's not like his memories, filled with the type of reality that makes his current situation seem like a dream, like maybe he's not lying in bed at four in the morning, Sam's breathing indiscernible in the darkness, thinking about getting a beer and trying not to jump at the very silence. 

"Dude," Sam says in a voice ragged from sleep, "I can hear you thinking, man. Why aren't you asleep?" 

Dean's ashamed of how relieved he is to have something to _listen_ to. He shifts in bed, rolling onto his side and trying to figure out which dark shape in the pitch black is Sam, and then one of the mounds of shadow moves and Dean -- well, he totally doesn't gasp like a little girl. Sam laughs, a little broken snort. 

"You're a pussy, Dean," he says, and Dean doesn't want to think about whether those words are true, about whether Hell changed him into something different than what he was before. _(Like if he's a little more inhuman, if Hell managed to tear away layers of his humanity, if he was close to becoming a demon before he got out.)_

"I most certainly am not," he says instead, and he can practically hear Sam's forehead wrinkle. 

"Dean, how long have you been lying there awake?" he asks, and flattens out on the bed. Dean does the same, even though he can't actually see the ceiling. But when he closes his eyes, he sees flames and wild, feral eyes, so he opens them again and stares at nothing. It's unusual to be in a place with no streetlights to fill in the dark corners, but they're in a room at the back, and the window shades are surprisingly thick. 

"I'm just thinking," Dean hedges. "It's such a pretty night." 

"Bullshit," Sam says, the sound of something flopping against something else. Dean figures Sam just covered his eyes with his arm. When he speaks again it's a little muffled. "You never talk about the weather, you're not a poetic soul unless it's a vulgar limerick, and you've never much cared to share mushy sentiments like that with me, so fuck off, Dean, and tell me what the fuck is really going on." 

"It's been quiet for months, Sam. No seals breaking, no Castiel swooping in to impart doom and gloom, not even a good case in weeks. What are we even doing right now? Sticking our thumbs up our asses and waiting for Lilith to get the jump on us again?" 

Sam huffs out a breath. "I don't know, Dean. It would actually be preferable if Castiel would show up and give us some insight." 

"Yeah, and you, too, Sam. You gonna tell me you're not having visions any more?" 

Sam sighs again, long and gustily. "It's not like that. I don't see people die any more. I don't even really see the future, I just dream about Lilith constantly." 

"Do you ever get to see what she's doing?" Dean's less curious and more concerned now. Sam hasn't mentioned this before. 

"No, nothing. I just get these little sensations, like when she's moving hosts, or whatever. I never even see the hosts' faces, I just sorta, I can't explain it. It's not a vision any longer." Sam blows out another breath. "Sometimes I see destruction, but I don't sense Lilith then. It's weird. It's like -- I can't place it." Sam goes really quiet. 

"We gotta do something, be proactive," Dean grumbles into the darkness. "Is it -- Sam, is it too quiet in here?" He's kinda pissed at himself for even asking, but times like this, he wishes Sam snored. Or at least, more often than he does, anyway. 

"Dean, that's how people sleep," Sam says in his best 'I know everything' tone. Dean scoffs, grabs one of the extra throw pillows by his side and chucks it at the faint outline of Sam. 

Sam 'oofs' and rolls onto his side. Dean can't see it, of course, but he can easily feel Sam's glare hot on his face. 

"It's just. I can't sleep without highway noise," Dean lies. "I've grown accustomed to all that honking and gravel and--" 

"Dean, one, it's not any more quiet here than anywhere else we've ever stayed over the years, and two, you've never mentioned anything like this before." 

"Forget it," Dean says, turns his face away from Sam. Somewhere in front of him is the wall, and he wonders if he reaches his hand out he'll feel it. 

And then he wonders if it will be slippery with blood, and if he turns back, if Sam will be gone, just a product of fevered, tortured imagination. 

Sam makes a little aborted noise, and Dean's snapped back to _this_ reality, this construct that is supposed to be genuinely happening. He only hopes it's not another mirage played on his eyelids for effect. 

"Turn the TV on low if it bothers you that much," Sam says. "And then, dude, go to sleep. I wanna get some actual rest while there's no case for us to be rushing off to." 

"Sammy, I can't -- d'you ever think about what Yellow-Eyes's plan was?" Dean's not sure what causes him to bring it up, but he can't help but grapple with shadows, hands splayed in the darkness, trying to grasp at nothing. His brain is cob-webbed and fogged over with grime, like he's not sure any more what he's thinking or even where he is. 

"What the--" Sam shifts against the sheets again. Dean finds himself hanging on every single last rustle, every little whistle as the air flows in and out of Sam's lungs. "You think about this often?" 

Dean's not about to admit that he worries about Sam and his _destiny_ constantly, about whether there was more to the plan than just grooming a demon leader. He realises guiltily that he never really told Sam about the fact that Azazel had a blueprint for destruction other than simply claiming a debt with some young women, and then feeding their children demon's blood ten years later. This probably isn't the time, either. But Dean's at a point where he'll do anything to keep Sam talking, to keep the silence at bay for just a few minutes longer. 

"Y'know, I went back and saw Mom, right? You remember how she was? And Dad? Well, thing is, Castiel told me that -- wait, no, that's not exactly how it happened. I was in 1973, Sammy, and Azazel possessed our grandfather. He did a lot of posturing -- and Sam, why do the bad guys always do that? -- and talked about, well, his 'endgame'. And then when I got back, Castiel said none of the angels knew what it was." 

"Dean," Sam mumbles sleepily into his pillow, "I knew that already." 

"What do you mean?" Dean sounds wide awake even to his own ears. 

"It was obvious Azazel was planning something, Dean. The only question is what." 

"Not just the American Idol of special psychic children," Dean says with a sneer. "I meant, something other than that. Something bigger than just propagating his blood all over the place." 

"That makes sense," Sam says, sounding half-asleep again. Dean raises his arm, tries to pick out which shadow is his hand in front of his face. 

"Sammy, this is fucked. Lilith's off doing who the fuck knows what, and we're just lying around doing nothing. And -- what if that wasn't the end of it, Sam? All of these fits you keep having, all of that shit that's going down, how do we know Yellow-Eyes didn't do something more nefarious than just breed a bunch of psychic kids?" 

There's no response from the other bed, and Dean's resigned to the silence now, closes his eyes again, ignores the sparkle of firelight on the inside of his lids, rubs his fingers over his lips and tries to shut out the deafening quiet. 

He's actually almost asleep when deafening quiet morphs into deafening noise, and his eyes shoot open in time to see the glitter and flash of glass as it shatters and cascades through the air, and when he looks over at Sam, his brother is sitting straight up in bed, one hand on the side of his face, hiding his expression from Dean. 

It's nearly dawn, so Dean can see into the greyness now, and the window curtains are flapping angrily in a breeze that wasn't there five minutes ago, and there's glass scattered all over the floor, indicating that something just blew out the windows. 

"Dude, what the fuck was that?" Dean says, and gets out of bed. He shoves his feet into his boots and walks over to the window, crouching down and examining the glass for a second before looking up at the window frame. There's not a speck of glass left in it, which is unusual. 

"I uh, have no idea," Sam says, but he sounds unsure, like either he was sound asleep and startled by the noise, or he's not telling Dean something. 

Dean really hopes it's not the latter. 

"Man, the motel is gonna have our _ass_ ," Dean says, shaking his head. Standing up, he sits down heavily on the edge of Sam's bed. This close he can smell the musk of old sweat and sleepy skin, which is an achingly familiar smell, one he was tormented with incessantly in Hell, constantly reminded of Sam and the things he would never have again. 

"We better tape it up," Sam says sleepily. "It's gonna get awful cold in here if we don't, and, Dean, it's too early to get up." 

"I'll do it," Dean says. "Go back to sleep, Sam." 

By the time Dean's done, the sun has started to rise and he's cross-legged on his own bed, fully dressed and watching the light creep through the cracks. Sammy's still asleep, hair sticking out fluffy from under the covers, and Dean wants to watch him, just sit and pretend like the world isn't ending, like they're not fighting for their very lives and everyone else's. 

And then Sam has the seizure. 

Dean's seen them before, generally on TV, but once or twice in their travels he's seen real people suffering from one too, and so he recognises it instantly, although that doesn't ameliorate the sense of panic that pervades him from his skull down to his toes. 

Sam's body jerks, like a puppet with its strings being manipulated every which way, and his eyelids flutter, and his back bows off the bed over and over, and Dean's helpless, not sure whether to call nine-one-one or just keep reaching for Sam; whether to panic to the point of uselessness or try to remain in command of his faculties so that he can do _something_ , except there's nothing to be done, nothing except watch Sam pant and writhe and move like his muscles have been torn and restrung incorrectly. 

And then Sam groans, endless, and claws at his skull, fingernails leaving bloody streaks along his temples, the seizure receding and being replaced by the type of agony Dean hasn't ever witnessed in someone living. The last time he saw someone claw bloody ribbons into their skin, he was holding the leather lash and standing at the rack. 

Dean ruthlessly buries those memories, because this is _different_ , this is Sam, and Sammy's in pain, and John charged Dean with keeping Sam safe, with alleviating whatever pain he ever could and trying to shoulder the rest of it himself. 

He throws himself across Sam's broad chest, almost not strong enough to restrain his brother, who has a good forty pounds on him and all of it muscle. He traps Sam's wrists, one in each hand, and rides out the spell or whatever the fuck it is, forcing Sam to be still even as he bucks restlessly beneath Dean, moaning and crying out in pain. 

Dean's got no fucking clue what's going on, just that ever since the seals started breaking Sam's been suddenly deteriorating into these fits of anguish, physical pain that seems so severe Sam can barely breathe, yet every time it's over, Sam refuses to talk about it. 

Then again, Dean's been refusing to talk about a lot of things himself, so maybe that's not unreasonable. Blood is oozing from multiple scratches on his head, and Sam's still struggling, breath hot and wet on Dean's cheek, as Dean continues to use his own weight to hold Sam down. 

And then it's over, and Sam lets out a breath, falls limp against the bed. Dean lets go of his wrists and climbs off his brother, fetching the first aid kit and beginning to dress the marks on Sam's forehead even as his little brother's breathing evens out. 

"I don't know," Sam says in answer to Dean's unspoken, burning question. "I don't know." 

"Have you ever had pain like that before?" Dean asks, hopes the answer is 'no', is immediately devastated by Sam's response. 

"Only when you were dead," Sam says woodenly. Dean doesn't think he means to make Dean feel like the scum that scum consider lower than scum, but it has that effect just the same. It reminds Dean that even though he was suffering in Hell, Sammy was suffering too, and there's really nothing in Hell or on Earth that can make him feel worse than that. 

"Sammy, what's going on? Seems like--" 

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam says, eyes flying open. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." 

"Yes, you did," Dean says, propelling the conversation forward. "Never mind, Sam. Just, we gotta figure out what's going on." 

"I called Bobby," Sam says, head falling back against the pillow. "Called him the last time it happened, and he said I was a moron, that that was nothing new, and that he would look into it. I don't think he ever figured out what it was." 

"Did he have any leads about what seals Lilith might break next?" Dean puts down the antibiotic ointment, shoves strands of Sam's hair away from the wounds. 

"No idea, but I think it's a pretty safe bet she's bringing forth the Horsemen. She's probably not going to abandon that objective, Dean, and I hate to see what happens when she raises Death. You don't argue with Death, Dean. You just die." 

"Then we better keep her from breaking that seal, that's for damn sure," Dean says, getting up and putting the first aid kit away. Sam sits up, and even though there's fine lines written on his forehead from the pain, he doesn't look like he's suffering any more. 

"It would help if we had some idea _how_ ," Sam points out. "Should probably call Bobby again and ask him if he knows what type of ritual is required to break that seal, and if he knows any way we can stop it." 

"Well, one thing is for sure," Dean says. "We have to check out of this motel and find a new one, preferably before they figure out we destroyed the glass in their windows. Or that you got blood on their pillows." 

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Fuck, now I can't shower," he says, when he realises it will wash away the ointment. "Thanks, Dean," he adds as an afterthought. 

"Well, sharing quarters with a stinky little brother, what else is new?" Dean comments, and stretches, arms over his head. "I'm gonna shower at least. Turn the news on, Sam, see if there's any weird goings-on anywhere, you know, the usual sweep for unusual phenomena." 

"You got it," Sam says, and throws his covers back. His body is strangely mottled red in places, chest covered with what almost looks like hand prints, but that's crazy. 

Yet when Dean takes off his own shirt and moves to climb into the shower, his own skin is reddened all over. He has no idea what that means, or if it even means anything at all, but dollars to doughnuts it has something to do with a seal. 

Dean hopes it's just the sign of imminent breakage and not an indication that the seal gave way with no warning. 

By the time he finishes up shaving and throwing some clean clothes on, the marks are gone and Sam's tapping away at the laptop keyboard when he gets out of the bathroom. 

"Find anything, Sammy?" Dean asks, towelling dry his hair. It's all artful spikes again when he's finished. 

"Nothing so far on the news, but there's something -- Dean, I've been looking into this for awhile, and I didn't wanna say anything unless it seemed strictly necessary, but the more research I do, the more I think it is." 

"Dude, spit out. What?" 

"Pestilence, Dean. It's not something we can trifle with. I'm pretty sure that once you catch the disease, that's it, you're dead." 

"Well, that's encouraging," Dean remarks. "Anything else, Einstein?" 

"Yeah, well, I didn't tell you what else Bobby said. He said that demons -- even their host bodies -- are immune to pestilence. He pointed out that I didn't catch that demon virus, and that maybe I'd be lucky enough to be immune to the effects of this demon. But -- but not you, Dean." 

"What's your point, princess?" Dean asks, poking at his lips in the mirror. They're chapped, and that's been annoying him all morning. "Do we have any chapstick, Sam?" 

"In my duffel, in the side pocket," Sam says. Dean heads over to Sam's bed, unzips the side pocket. 

"Figures you'd want your lips soft and kissable," Dean says, "seeing as you never get any." 

"Could you focus, Dean, please?" Sam turns the laptop in Dean's direction. "Bobby suggested that -- well, it's a long shot, but we have to try everything." 

"Dude, Sam, seriously, just blurt it out. Stop fucking around the bush." 

"It's my demon blood, Dean. And -- and I ought to be able to pass that, like a disease. If -- if I do what Azazel did, I can infect someone else with it." 

Dean gives Sam his full attention at that, eyebrow going up as high as it can. "Are you saying -- dude, are you suggesting I _drink your blood?_ " 

Sam lowers his eyes and shrugs. "You don't wanna catch this, Dean, trust me." 

"Last resort," Dean says stridently. "We are not doing that unless it seems like there's nothing else to do." 

"It's just a little blood, Dean, and Bobby's pretty sure that while it will transfer the immunity, it won't do anything else because I'm not _actually_ a demon." 

"Pretty sure? I'm gonna need--" 

" _Really_ pretty sure," Sam says, and Dean walks over, thwacks him upside the head. 

"Cute, Sam, real cute." 

"Well, we won't do it unless that seal actually breaks, Dean, don't worry." Sam snaps the laptop lid closed. "C'mon, let's pack up, shag ass, and get some breakfast on our way to the next town. I didn't see anything that looks like omens, and up until that oddness last night, I haven't sensed Lilith being up to anything, either." 

"Sam..." Dean stuffs the last of his dirty clothes into the canvas bag. "Can you -- can you read minds?" 

"No," Sam says, almost a little too quickly. "No, that would be weird. It's more of a vibe I get from demons, that's all." 

"Good, keep it that way," Dean says. He lifts up his duffel and looks meaningfully at Sam's unmade bed. "Get a move on." 

"I'm already packed," Sam replies. "I put my bag in the trunk already, I just kept the laptop out for investigative purposes." 

"God, you're such a freak," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "I wanna get sausage and eggs this morning, Sam, so we need to find a good place to stop. Preferably with some really cute diner waitress." 

It's Sam's turn to roll his eyes, and Dean stifles his snicker. 

As they turn onto the highway, Dean looks up under the sun visor, realises that there's a strange hue on the horizon, kind of purplish, even though the sun is already completely up. 

He brushes it off as nothing, though, concentrating on the Zeppelin in the tape deck and the slight wheeze in Sam's breathing as his brother tries not to complain that this is the sixth time they've listened to this tape in a week. 

Dean drives, and Sam stares out the window looking for a place to stop for breakfast, and it's a beautiful day, the type that makes you believe nothing could ever go wrong with the world. 

Dean kind of really wishes that were true. 

There's a faint tickle at the back of his brain, and it never even occurs to him to wonder what it is. 

By the time they stop it's the middle of the morning, and even though the diner looks promising, their waitress is grey-haired and even though she's still attractive, and clearly fond of them both, she doesn't seem inclined to Dean's favourite kind of fun, which is a shame. 

"You two make such a cute couple," she gushes as she scribbles their orders on her pad. "You remind me of my nephew." 

Sam opens his mouth to correct her and Dean stomps on his foot under the table. They might get free pie if she thinks they're in a relationship with each other. 

"Make sure you don't put cream in the coffee, boys," she advises. "It's excellent, amazing without anything added to it." 

"I'll be sure to remember that," Dean says, his best trademark smile in place. She melts under the warmth of it, and Dean's pretty sure Sam's making that tight face he gets whenever Dean's being particularly incorrigible. 

"And the bacon's fantastic," she says, wheedling, clearly loathe to walk away from their table. This time Sam smiles, dimples out in full force, and she turns to goo under the combined force of their attention. "What happened to your face, honey?" she asks, and Dean shoots a look at Sam, realises that his hair doesn't completely cover the scratches and welts on his forehead. 

"Oh, just our cat woke me up this morning. I'll have some bacon, then," Sam says easily, letting a gloss seep into the tenor of his voice, changing the subject before she can get too interested in why the marks look like they've been made by human hands. She actually titters as she walks away, and Dean's kind of disappointed that she's not about twenty years younger. 

Sam glares at him from across the table. "Dean, shame on you." 

"You love it," Dean replies, arching one eyebrow, quirking his lips so that his own dimples come into play. "There could be free pie, Sammy! I can't turn that down." 

"You'd think someday you'd get sick of pie," Sam says, shaking his head. "Fine, but I'm going to remember that the next time you complain about how everyone thinks we're gay." 

Dean just grins, and when the waitress brings their food, she really does bring a slice of pie with her. 

"On the house," she says. "Stay happy, boys." 

Dean shovels the food into his mouth, but out of the corner of his eye something catches his attention, and when he looks up, Sam's eyes have a funny sort of reflective quality. And then, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone. 

Sammy doesn't eat much, even though the coffee is just as promised and the bacon smells heavenly even from on Sam's plate. Dean snatches a piece, crunches into it, and closes his eyes in bacon-induced bliss even as Sam's fork clatters down against the table. 

"Listen, Dean, I feel kinda sick," Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes. "Like, something's wrong, or something awful is about to happen, I'm not really sure. I think Lilith's active again." 

Dean tracks their waitress with his eyes and wonders whether she's hiding black in hers. She _was_ really nice... 

"Settle the bill, Dean, I'll meet you in the car," Sam says, and shoves out of the booth. 

"I gotta take a leak first," Dean says. "I'll be out in a minute." 

He spends a few minutes in the bathroom staring at his reflection and wondering why he, too, suddenly feels kind of nauseous, and when he goes up to the register with the money in his hand, his gaze falls on the television playing behind the counter. 

It's showing a hospital that's teeming with people, most of them covered in sores the like of which Dean has never seen before, and well, that cannot be good. There's one close-up that shows marks kind of like the ones he'd seen on himself and Sam earlier that morning, and he throws down the money and dashes out the door, grabbing the handle of the Impala's door and yanking it open. 

"Sammy, I think we're too late. I'm pretty sure Pestilence just made itself known." 

Sam's kind of grey, looking grave. "Yeah, I heard." 

"You -- heard?" Dean gives Sam a funny look. "You were out here." 

"On the radio," Sam adds immediately, but when Dean studies him, Sam has that look he used to get when he was little and kept stealing all of the cookies that Dad could barely afford. 

"Sam, dude, the car's not on," Dean says slowly. And then, "Yeah, well, it looks pretty messy, and I think we're already fucked, because there coulda been twenty people already sick, who the fuck knows how many more that they didn't show, and if you're right, those people are all gonna die. Unless... Sam, will they still die if we put down the demon like a rabid dog?" 

"I don't know, Dean, but I think Lilith just forced our hand. We gotta find a place to stop on the way, anywhere that's got some privacy, because I am not letting you drive into a town besieged by plague without doing everything I can to make sure you're safe." 

"Stop stealing my job," Dean says, hoping a little levity will ease up on the gravity of the situation. Sam scowls, though, lips folding down. 

"I'm serious, Dean." 

"All right, all right," Dean concedes, and starts to drive. 

They're at least six hours away from the affected area, and so Dean drives non-stop for five and then finds a motel, gets them a room and follows Sammy inside, latching the door with the 'do not disturb' sign hanging on the outside. 

"Is there some kind of ritual to this?" Dean asks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Or do I just drink your blood?" 

"It's not a ritual per se, but I have to emulate what Azazel did or it won't work, although your guess is as good as mine as to why not. You have to be -- uh, relaxed, like almost asleep. And I have to break the skin on my wrist, and when the blood hits your mouth, you have to swallow at least six drops. Bobby swears that will work." 

"Man, this is all kinds of sick," Dean mutters. "I hope you don't have AIDs." 

" _Dean_." Sam sounds utterly disgusted with him. "You know perfectly well I don't. Not that the blood of a demon isn't probably a worse virus, but still." 

"This is so second grade," Dean says under his breath as he lies down on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. Sam looms over him, and okay, yeah, Sam can be kinda scary like that, all big and giant wingspan and Dean suddenly feels very, very small and uneasy for no reason he can fathom. 

"Just try to relax, Dean," Sam instructs. "It's gonna be pretty quick and painless -- well, at least for you, anyway." 

"Just do it already, Sam," Dean says, closing his eyes. The silence stretches between them, and Dean's forcibly and unexpectedly reminded of when they were kids, when they did something just like this, Sammy five years old and Dean nine and filled with glee at the idea of being _blood brothers_ and not quite on the uptake enough to realise that they already were. Sammy'd cried a little, blood dripping down his little fingers, as Dean used his brand-new knife, the one he'd gotten for his birthday, to score a line down Sammy's palm. 

And when they'd mixed their blood, hands clasped together, Dean had looked at Sam's lowered eyelashes, little freckles scattered across the lids, and sworn to himself for the umpteenth time that he would never let anything bad happen to his baby brother. 

Dean has failed Sam twice now, when Jess flamed away to nothing on the ceiling of Sam's apartment, and when Sam was stabbed in the back by Jake, and he's not going to do it again. No matter what it takes, he's going to keep the vow he made the last time they willingly shared their blood. 

And then the first metallic drop hits Dean's lips, and he opens his mouth and his eyes, and the blood is oozing out of a wound on Sam's wrist, clinging to the hairs there and falling through the air to land in a spatter on Dean's mouth, and he licks it off his lips, swallows carefully, counts the droplets until he's ingested six, and then Sam grips his wrist with his other hand and staves off the flow. 

It wasn't even the type of wound they'd usually so much as blink at, but Sam's eyelids are lowered and there's sweat standing out on his clammy forehead. 

"I think -- I think I need to lie down for about twenty minutes," Sam says, and that right there gives Dean his first indication that maybe the ritual just worked. He doesn't _feel_ any different, but Sammy looks like it took a lot out of him, so he nods against the pillow and remembers how five-year-old Sam had laughed and giggled when Dean had tackled him to the floor, tickling and rubbing his nose into the carpet, their blood still staining their skin. 

They'd gotten quite the lecture about that, later, when John came home; an instruction about how to try to keep injuries to a minimum, even if Sam was still too little to know why. 

Dean can still taste the copper on his tongue, and he flicks the TV on as Sam sprawls on the bed next to him. They'd taken whatever room was available because they didn't intend to sleep there, which means that now there's only one king-size bed and fuck all if Sam doesn't manage to take up most of it. It's been a long time since they've shared a bed, and Dean's really pretty sure Sam wasn't a Sasquatch back then. 

"Wake me up in a few minutes," Sam slurs. "Can't wait too long to get there and take care of things." 

But it turns out something wakes them both up an hour later, when the smoke detector goes off and Dean opens stinging eyes to a billow of smoke hurtling across the room towards them. 

He looks at Sam, but Sammy's still mostly asleep as the fire begins to spread, and Dean can only hope that whatever caused it, it's not their fault. He's thankful that they didn't unpack the Impala because they'd only planned to stay for a short time, so he hauls Sam to his feet and they make a run for it, peeling out of the parking lot and trying to be appear inconspicuous and as if they didn't just escape a burning motel room without even bothering to call the fire department. 

Dean cuts his eyes away from the road and focuses on Sam for a second. 

"Hey, Sam, you think you can put _out_ fires too?" he asks, and Sam shrugs one shoulder. 

"No idea, never tried," he says. Dean's just about to believe that without question when he thinks back a few months earlier to that first house and the first Horseman-related seal, and the fact that they'd been surrounded until Sam did _something_ and got them out of the house alive and unscathed. 

Dean wants to ask Sam about it, to make Sam explain why he would lie, but he's distracted by the car rolling to a stop, all of the lights and electricity going out. They're right outside the afflicted town, and Dean really hopes it's not the demon they're chasing, because he's a little bit apprehensive about how well Sam's little ritual has worked, but then someone walks out of the twilight, arms crossed in a familiar manner, and Dean's head hits the back of the seat with a thunk. 

"Ruby," he groans, and gets out of the car. She looks Dean up and down, then stares at Sam for a long moment, before facing them both. 

"Smart," she says. "Which one of you primates actually thought of that?" 

"Bobby," Sam says, head a little bit lowered. 

"Ah, I should have known," she remarks. "Well, it took, anyway. I mean, as best as I can tell, at least you two boys should be safe walking into town like avenging angels." 

"Funny," Sam says dryly. "You know I'm the furthest thing from an angel there is." And Ruby looks suddenly calculating. 

"I wouldn't say that," she says, then directs her gaze to Dean. "Try not to drop dead of the plague, because Sam is a useless pile of misery when you're gone." 

"Thanks for that, Ruby," Dean says sarcastically. "I'm so glad you're concerned with his welfare. Or mine, for that matter." 

"If I weren't," she starts, "I wouldn't be here right now to make sure you two don't fuck up and die. Either way, I think you'll be all right. Have a nice vacation, boys." 

She's gone before Dean can retort, and Sam trades a glance with Dean. 

"Guess that means the ritual worked," Sam says a little weakly. "I don't know about you, but I'm still not crazy about walking directly into a hotbed of disease and pestilence." 

"What other choice do we have?" Dean asks, slides back into the car and slams the door shut, Sam doing likewise. 

"I wish we could phone in an exorcism," Sam says mournfully. 

"Ha, that'd be funny, y'know," Dean says with a bark of slightly black laughter. "If we put a megaphone on the Impala and just drove across the country blaring the exorcism ritual." 

"It might even work," Sam says grudgingly. "Anyhow, might as well get this show on the road." 

"Any idea who the demon might be possessing?" Dean asks as he starts up the Impala again. Sam settles back against the leather seat next to Dean. 

"It's gotta be someone who can easily transmit disease," Sam says thoughtfully. "I hate to say it, but probably a little kid. And probably a little kid that was around all of the people who immediately got sick without actually getting sick himself or herself." 

"Great. A kid. Oh man, I love when we have to do evil and unspeakable things to children, because no matter what good it is for humanity, inevitably someone's pissed." 

"Well, Dean, you know as well as I do we don't do this job to make fans. We do it to protect people, and sometimes that means alienating them." 

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," Dean shoots back. "So, fire up the laptop, research-boy, and try to find out who got sick first, and where, and who was lucky enough not to catch it." 

Sam pulls the laptop out of its case and opens the lid, switches it on. The drive is a short one, and by the time they pull into the hospital parking lot, Sam has an answer. Not that he doesn't _always_ have an answer, but some of them are more useful than others. 

"Demon's got a sense of humour," Sam mumbles at last. "I figure it's gotta be this kid, because if nothing else, it's too ironic not to be the case." 

"Yeah?" Dean takes the ticket and drives down into the parking garage. 

"Yeah, a five-year-old named Mercy Collins was with a group of little kids in day care. Every last one of them got sick within hours, except her." 

"Sounds like a demon's sick sense of humour all right," Dean agrees. "So. One of us is gonna have to kidnap that girl and--" 

"No. No, Dean, I hate to say it, but I don't see any other option. You're going to have to distract whoever while I--" 

"Sam, we've had this argument before, the answer's always been no, the answer's gonna _stay_ no, I'm not risking--" 

"Dean, stop." Sam puts the computer to sleep and shoves it back in its bag. "This is not the time to rehash this again. I haven't seen head nor tail feather of Uriel in months, which means I'm doing _something_ right, even if the angels don't like it." 

"Well, dude, we're gonna need a huge distraction, I think, because I'm pretty sure our demon isn't going to be exactly subtle, and it's bad enough that there is a sudden inexplicable deadly disease in this town." 

Sam extends his legs as far as he can in the cramped front seat of the Impala, laptop bag crammed between his thighs. Dean shakes his head a little. The Chevy is a huge car, but against that freak of nature, it never had a chance. 

"Sure, whatever, Dean. We just gotta find this kid and--" 

"If you were five years old, Sam -- and I mean physically, not emotionally -- and you were the only one of your playmates not to get sick, where do you think you'd be?" 

"Probably in my backyard playing on the swings," Sam says, ignoring Dean's jibe. 

"Yahtzee. Does it say where she lives?" 

"No, not precisely, but it did say her mother was head of the hospital." 

"It say where the mother lives?" 

"Downtown," Sam says. "But then again, maybe she's here, anyway." 

Dean sighs heavily. "Do you sense any demons nearby?" 

"No, but I think we probably have bigger fish to fry." 

"Why's that?" Dean turns the key and the Impala growls to a halt. 

"Because, if I were a demon intent on making everyone sick in a wider and wider radius, I'd be sneaking away from home right about now, and--" 

"Oh, fuck," Dean curses. "You know, Sam, I just paid for parking and we don't even need to be here." 

"That's sadly true," Sam says. "And we're running low on cash again, Dean, you need to buy less booze and more food until we can hustle some more poker." 

"Unfortunately, that has to take a back seat to hunting demons for the moment," Dean says, and wheels the car back out of the parking space. He grimaces when he hands over the ten bucks for parking, and then they're flying down the highway, trying not to call too much attention to themselves as they keep their eyes peeled for a five-year-old without any accompanying guardian. 

It's about when the radio broadcast shivers in and out and the headlights flicker that Dean feels every sense kick into high gear. 

She's found them, it turns out, appropriating Ruby's little car-stopping trick and causing the Impala to thunder to a stop on the shoulder. 

Sam jumps out of the car, and Dean's only a step behind, but he doesn't get very far before once again he's held immobile by invisible bonds against his body, this time pressed to the sleek black metal of his baby. 

"Aw, how sweet," she says, and for a split second Dean wonders if this is actually Lilith, 'cause the kid is tiny and blonde and far too adorable-looking to be inhabited by a profane spirit. "Shame you two found me, isn't it? Because now you're both going to get sick and die." 

"I don't think so," Dean says through gritted teeth. Sam's loose-limbed, relaxed, like he's not worried in the least. 

"My brother's right," he says. "I don't know how long it's been since you've been top side, but things have changed, sweetheart. Nowadays, there are those of us who know just how to handle a filthy boil on humanity's backside like you." 

"Oh, you've hurt my feelings," she says, clutching at her heart. Sam smiles, a wicked curve of intent. 

"But you like boils, don't you? Like spreading disease and foulness?" 

The little girl starts to walk closer, and Sam holds out his hand. She comes to a screeching halt, literally, her lung-power piercing right through Dean's eardrums. But no matter how she strains, she can't make headway against Sam's outstretched hand. 

Dean wonders briefly if this is part of Sam's hand of doom-for-demons, or if this is something new. Sam smiles lazily again. 

"I think you're about to find yourself back in Hell," he says, and she spits at him. 

Dean wishes he could move, and is more than a little thankful that he doesn't feel like he's getting ill. 

"I don't think so, puny human, I think--" and then she stops, stares hard. "Holy fuck," she says, and Dean's eyes widen, unused to language like that from a child, even in his line of work. 

"That's right," Sam says, and his eyes slit closed a little. She begins to cough, to lean forward, and Dean realises that Sam is much stronger than he used to be, because his nose doesn't bleed and he doesn't reach for his head as the black smoke belches from her mouth. 

Dean feels the invisible straps against his body fall away, and Sam lowers his hand. The little girl starts to cry, looking around frantically. 

"It's okay, sweetie," Sam says in his most soothing tone, crouching down to her level. "Really. We'll take you to your mom, okay? Try not to be alarmed." 

"I wa--was so sc--scared," she stutters, throwing chubby little arms around Sam's neck. "I don't know what happened to me." 

"It's best if you forget about it altogether," Sam says gently. "I promise you, you'll be happier that way." He gets to his feet with her still clinging to him, and deposits her into the back seat of the Impala. Dean gets back in, straps himself in, and gives Sam a sidelong look. No matter what Sam says, this kid is going to be haunted by this forever. 

And then, as Dean makes a U-turn and blends back into traffic, the little girl starts to laugh. 

It seems odd to Dean, but he's quickly and irrevocably distracted by the radio announcing a miraculous, almost instantaneous recovery of everyone who'd been sick, and sighs in relief. 

They drop Mercy off with her mother, explaining they found her wandering confused along the freeway, and the woman gives them a dirty look but accepts her daughter, waving them off. 

Dean drives them to a motel in town and stops the car, looking over at Sam. 

"Death is next," he says. "I don't think we can pretend any more that Lilith isn't going to break that seal just as easy as snapping apart a Kit-Kat, Sammy." 

"Yeah. I know," Sam says. He sounds defeated. "I really thought -- I mean, I thought we had a chance. I thought for sure there was something we could do, or the angels wouldn't have saved you, wouldn't've cared one way or the other because they would've already known it was a lost cause." 

"So, here's the thing, Sam: I think we better gear up to face Lucifer. Better be prepared, because it's gonna happen, and you and I have gotta be ready." 

Famous last words. 

_When Dean was nine years old, Sammy caught the chicken pox. It was only a few weeks after they'd bled on each other, and it was horribly frustrating, because little Sam wouldn't stop crying and itching his sores, which made John just as sore towards them both._

_Dean didn't remember having the chicken pox himself, although he must have, and when he asked John, his father hedged and said that it had been way back when Dean was four, and that meant -- well, that meant that his mother had probably taken care of him when he was sick._

_That made Dean feel even more sorry for Sammy, because his baby brother didn't have a mother, never had, and the closest thing he had now was his big brother. When John went out that night, telling Dean he'd be back by morning, Dean had run the bath with the oatmeal stuff in it, told Sammy not to eat it, and plunked his little brother in the water._

_Sam had splashed them both, and despite instruction, some of the water went into his mouth anyway, but he made a face and spit it back out, laughing even with tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. Dean kept grabbing little chubby fingers and pulling them away from Sam's chicken pox, and when he got Sam out of the bath, Dean was so proud of himself._

_Maybe Sam had never known his mother, but he had Dean, and there was nothing Dean wouldn't do for Sammy._

_He dressed Sam in his blue fuzzy blanket sleeper with Cookie Monster on it and tucked him into bed, snuggling up next to him even though he was really too old, and watched Sam suck his thumb as he drifted off._

_Sam wasn't sick for long, but Dean never forgot what it was like to take care of his little brother, and even though Sam was rarely sick again growing up, Dean filed away the information just in case._

_There was nothing Dean wouldn't do for Sammy, whether it be giving his life or draining every last drop of his blood to protect him._


	4. interlude

**part four: interlude**

Sam can read minds. 

He told Dean he couldn't, of course, when Dean asked. But the truth is that Sam has been able to read minds ever since the rising of the witnesses. Not Dean's, though, for whatever reason. Any time he's ever tried he's gotten only static. 

Sam can set fires, too, without a match or a lighter, can put them out, even, although that's more difficult and requires a lot more concentration. 

Sam used to have visions, too, precognitive images that seared his brain. That ability's not gone, just evolved into something else. 

Sam had visions, he can read minds, he can set fires, he can extinguish them, but all of that was just the beginning. 

Now Sam can do things he'd never imagined he could do. He can persuade people to do just what he wants with only a few simple words. He remembers when Andy did that to Dean, and even though Sam has only ever used it once on Dean, he still feels ashamed of himself for taking advantage like that. 

It was necessary, of course. It was critical to their survival and the survival of others. But that doesn't make Sam feel any less guilty. 

He can make hosts vomit up demons, send the bastards back to Hell. He tries not to think about whether any of them ever encountered Dean while Dean was down there. He tries not to think about those four months -- forty years -- at all. 

And he can make people forget unpleasant things, which he figures is probably a side effect of the mind control the way putting out fires is a side effect of being able to set them. 

He did that for that little girl, although he doesn't think Dean realises. 

Sam can put his hand out and freeze a human -- and even a human host inhabited by a demon -- in their tracks, make them stay in place while he exorcises them. 

Sam can smell fear, now, too; he's not sure when he acquired that one. Maybe when a seal broke that they don't even know about. 

He knows that when Famine was released, he set an entire house on fire. And when War made an appearance, he discovered he could use nothing more than his voice and a little force of his thoughts to make someone bend to his will, and that he could make someone forget anything he wanted them to forget just by suggesting it. When Pestilence rose up, he found that he could do the same thing the demons always did when they pinned people in place with supernatural force. 

Every time he gets a new ability, he suffers violently for it, pain like he's never felt in his life, and Dean always looks so concerned, downright terrified, but Sam is not going to be the one who breaks it to Dean. He's not going to tell Dean about all of this shit. 

Some things just aren't worth the headaches, and Sam knows that if he tells Dean, if he tells him about the strange dreams, the visions, the thread of connection with Lilith, the rage burning through his veins, Dean will do something drastic and stupid and probably get himself killed again. 

Sam is not going to be responsible for Dean dying again. 

What frightens him most, though, is that he can hear demons. Not just sense them, not just track them, not just find them: he can _hear_ them, even when they're in Hell. He's never telling Dean about that neat little trick. 

But that's really not the worst of it. He accidentally spilled holy water on himself a week ago, just after he exorcised Pestilence, and it _sizzled_ on his skin. Thinking back, thinking about things the angels have said to him, he finds himself mired in fear that maybe he's _becoming_ a demon. 

Maybe Dean's not the problem. Maybe Dean would never have been stripped down to nothing but blood and bone and the lust for vengeance. 

Maybe that's just Sam. 

Dean's snoring, finally asleep, and Sam remembers when the windows blew out, knows perfectly well it was his own powers going hay-wire. Sam taps the magazine of his gun against the barrel, slides it back into place. 

But Sam doesn't want to see what Dean will do if he actually goes through with it. Hell, at this point, Sam's not sure anything simple like a bullet to the brain will actually kill him. 

He sets down the gun and puts his head in his hands. He already knows demons can't kill him. 

He also hasn't mentioned to Dean the scores of demons he seems to be running into lately, exorcising them when Dean's not around, like two days ago in the gas station bathroom, or in the diner parking lot last night. 

Sam sighs, runs his fingers along his temples, and he can still feel the slight indentations where he gouged out his own skin in pain one night. 

Sam's afraid to sleep now. Afraid that if he lets his guard down too far, he'll either burn them to death or do something else dangerous and fatal. But it's worse than that. 

He doesn't _need_ to sleep the way he used to, and when he does, he's actually still aware of everything going on around him. He could sleep deeper than that. He's too afraid. 

The salt lines are a problem too. He can still touch salt, but it leaves little scorch marks on his skin now, and he can't actually cross a salt line any longer without brushing the salt out of the way, which has led to Dean asking painfully awkward questions about the state of Sam's hands. 

Sam slowly lies down on the bed, legs still hanging over the edge, and tries to fit the puzzle pieces together, but it feels like, to his overworked brain, that he's got pieces from fifty different puzzles. 

Dean snores on in the other bed. 

Sam lies there and thinks about what Azazel did to him. He's heard whispers, now, that Lilith just can't wait to break the last few seals, unlock that door, bring forth her Lord and Master and the Fallen Angel she's been angling for since she got topside. 

Sometimes, she still talks about killing Sam. Sometimes she talks about dragging Dean back down into Hell. Sam only knows that because her followers are abuzz with the gossip. He can't actually hear _Lilith_ , which is a major downside, because if he could he might know what was coming, what seal was next. She keeps that to herself, though, a volatile secret. 

Sam knows he shouldn't, but he also knows that the more he embraces his demon powers, the more he can protect them both. 

His eyes flutter closed. He wonders what ability will manifest next. 

*

_When Sam was six years old, he asked his daddy why they always had to move. Dean scoffed, and John refused to answer him, and it was right around Christmastime, so the only thing he asked for was a puppy._

_He got a stuffed animal in the shape of a dalmation, and he had it for half a year before it got lost during one of their moves. He never got a real dog, though, but in the end it was okay, because he had Dean._

_When Sam was six years old, he idolised Dean above all things. Even more than a puppy, his ten-year-old brother was larger than life, could do anything, seemed to know everything, and John was always so pleased with Dean that Sam tried to be just like him._

_Sam actually tried to please his father his whole life, it just seemed like he could never succeed._

_When Sam was six years old, the only pet he ever had was a rat in one of their scummy apartments. Dean knew about it, of course, and even though Dean kept swearing he was going to feed it to the pet snake in his homeroom, Dean also helped Sam keep it hidden, gave Sam things to feed it that he snatched from the fridge when John wasn't looking, and even donated the shoebox from his new sneakers for a place to keep it in._

_And Dean had wanted that shoebox. Sometimes Sam thinks that was the greatest expression of Dean's love, always sacrificing for Sam, always giving Sam whatever he wanted no matter how much Dean might have wanted it first._

_When Sam was six years old, Sam believed that Dean was even more of a superhero than John. He believed that with Dean around, nothing bad could ever happen. He believed in a lot of things, but what he believed in most of all was that he deserved an older brother like Dean, that he was special._

_When Sam was twenty-three years old, he learned that he had demon blood flowing through his veins, and that he was special, all right. Special like a heart attack. And then he died, and Dean sold his soul to resurrect him._

_Sam's not sure that he came back_ all right, _he thinks maybe something's fundamentally changed, maybe that's why this is happening, maybe that's why he can do things none of the other special children could do._

_Sam doesn't deserve a brother like Dean. He never did. Sam was a sickening, twisted excuse for a child, broken by a demon's foul taint, and nothing can ever make that all right._

_When Sam was six years old, everything was so simple._

_Then Sam grew up, and nothing was ever simple again._

*

Sam wakes up to a slight humming and a beeping, and realises his phone needs to be charged. When he gets up to plug it in, he looks down at his hands and for a split second he can see right through them, all of the veins and muscle just gone, his fingers filled with silver light. 

And then it's gone, and Sam has no clue what it means, but he sets the phone down and stares at his hands for long minutes, finally figuring it was just a trick of the pre-dawn light. 

He remembers Ava, and he remembers how just once, he got close enough to her to smell her hair, to put his fingertip on her lips, and he would've kissed her then, would've tried to ease her sorrow about her fiancé. And then he discovered she could control demons. 

Dean's asleep, so Sam covers his eyes and concentrates hard, and he's rewarded by the slight knock against the window that means a demon is fighting against the wards. Exhausted and defeated, Sam exorcises it with hardly even a flick of his total mental power. 

He's hungry, but all food tastes like ash to him lately, so he grabs a beer from the mini fridge and downs it in only a few swallows, because it seems like liquor is the only thing that tastes good to him any more. 

And then he looks out the window at the sun rising, and feels his feet go cold. Whatever's happening to him, he can't let Dean find out. 

Dean would run himself into the ground trying to stop it, and Sam's pretty sure by this point that the only way to stop it is to stop Lilith, and he's equally certain that stopping Lilith is impossible. 

*

_When Sam was six months old, a demon named Azazel walked into his nursery and bled into his mouth. He had a plan, an 'endgame' as he called it, and baby Sam was part of whatever that was._

_Sam was six months old, innocent and unprotected, and not even Dean could prevent what happened._

_And when Sam was twenty-two, he watched his girlfriend die in the same violent, demonic fire as his mother died in._

_And now, at twenty-five, Sam's pretty sure he could pin a pretty young girl to a ceiling and set her alight with demonic fire._

_Once, Sam wanted to be a lawyer. Now, Sam is shaping up to be something else, but what, he doesn't know._

_Something he's spent his whole life battling, though, and he doesn't think even Dean is powerful enough to keep it from happening, no matter what the angels say._

_He wonders what it means that Uriel hasn't been around to castigate him for using his abilities, which he's been doing so often lately._

_Lucifer is coming, and Sam was supposed to be part of the last defence._

_Sam's terrified that instead, he's going to bow at Lucifer's feet and beg for a place in the inner circle._

_Sam's smart enough to know that being in the winner's circle doesn't necessarily mean being in the right._

*

Sam stands over Dean, ghosts his fingers through Dean's short hair. 

He's going to disappoint his big brother, and he can't fathom anything worse than that, not even Hell on Earth. 

But Sam is about to find out that there are some things worse than a little disappointment.


	5. Chapter 5

**part five**

_Lucifer's been waiting millennia for this day. Waiting and suffering in limbo, trapped and beleaguered and mocked by the very angels he once put to shame._

_But when he looks down at his hands, they're lovely-veined and ready to put down the angels, to take control of his army and rise up, make the entire realms of Earth and Hell his dominion._

_Lucifer is the most beautiful thing a human can ever see. His voice is irresistible, his body glorious to behold, and there's only one way to defeat him, and that's to resist him._

_But no puny human could ever hope to do that._

_Lucifer makes a throne of bones and sits down, raising one hand. He has been waiting for his time, and his time is now._

\--//--

Dean has often wondered what Ruby's agenda is. He knows she has a secret, ulterior motive, even if Sam is too blinded by the beauty of her meatsuit to really look closely at what she's been asking him to do. 

Dean has tried questioning Sam, but his brother's more close-lipped than he's ever been, suddenly able to keep secrets from Dean when once he could never hope to do so. Dean knows that Sam slept with Ruby, probably more than once, but what he still doesn't understand is why that means Sam trusts her. Sam claims she saved his life, and maybe that's true. Hell, Dean knows it's true. 

But Ruby would save Sam's life if there was something she wanted from him, and so Dean remains suspicious. And beyond all of that, Ruby must know more about what the demons are planning than she's telling them. She knows something about Sam's destiny, Dean's sure of that, but he doesn't know what and Ruby's not talking. 

It's almost mid-morning, and Dean stretches his arms above his head, yawns gustily, and tamps down the little spurt of guilt that he snuck out of the motel late last night and left Sam sleeping alone, sought out a little company and something to do besides spend another night listening to silence and feeling it bleed in his ears. 

Which would be why he's lying in a stranger's bed, a pretty girl on her stomach next to him, bare shoulders on display above the sheet slipping down her body. Dean wiggles his toes, yawns again, and contemplates sneaking out of her bed, finding his clothes and boots and tip-toeing out the back door before she wakes up. 

Then again, that kind of defeats the purpose of avoiding Sam, of trying to avoid every problem they're currently facing, and it doesn't really matter anyway because she groans a little and shifts, arms still under the pillow, and raises her head. Even in the daylight she's still pretty, which is a relief, because Dean was drunk enough last night when he went home with her that he wasn't sure she'd still be attractive when he woke up. 

"D'you want round two?" she asks sleepily, and Dean shrugs mentally. He kind of remembers more than just one round from the night before, but maybe she doesn't, or maybe she tallies it up differently. 

"I gotta be getting back," he says without thinking, and she goes up on her elbows, breasts hanging heavy between her arms. Dean's body doesn't even react, which is a fair indication that his upstairs brain has taken over and reminded him that he's responsible for a world that needs saving, and a little brother who might need saving even more than the world, and he's dallying with some chick. 

Dean knows he's not always the most reliable guy, knows that he's spent more time sneaking out of bedrooms and living rooms and cars (and the occasional closet) than he's actually spent with their occupants, but that usually doesn't do more than cause a slight twinge on his conscience every few years or so. 

But apparently, leave Sammy alone for one night with the apocalypse coming hard and fast and Dean sounds like a married man who just realised he stayed out too late and his wife is going to notice, like the jig is up. 

She seems to think so, too, because she flops back down, blows a few strands of messy hair out of her face, and remarks, "You expected back at home?" 

"Something like that," Dean says without thinking. When he looks at her again, she has a little beauty mark right by her nose, and that's about the point where Dean realises that without Sam he feels utterly adrift, like he has no purpose if it's not keeping Sam safe. 

"You're not married, are you, Dean?" she asks, and Dean wants to put his face in his hands. When had he told her his real name? That was so fucking amateur, stupid, stupid mistake. He only hopes he didn't tell her his last name -- first rule of one-night stands when you're a demon hunter: don't tell your bedpartner who you are, because she might turn out to be a demon. 

He's _pretty_ sure she isn't, he might have sprinkled a little holy water on her when she wasn't looking -- can't be too careful any more, what with the world coming to an end -- and she didn't fizz or give off steam, but that doesn't preclude her being possessed while they were both asleep. 

Which basically means, fuck if he isn't paranoid now. That actually makes him scan the room quickly for any sign of Castiel, because it wouldn't be the first time his own personal angel showed up at a particularly awkward time. 

"No, I'm not married," he says. She smiles at him, front teeth a little bit crooked, but endearingly so. She starts to run her fingers up and down his bare bicep, and Dean shivers, but whether it's pleasure or something else, he's not sure. 

"Got a girlfriend, then? Because you seem awfully antsy. Stay awhile, baby, give it another go-round." 

Dean forces a smile in return. This really was a mistake, because he doesn't have time to linger here, no matter how persuasive the offer. 

"No, I don't have a girlfriend either," he says. "But my little brother is waiting for me back at the -- back at home." It's becoming more clear by the second that it's time to bail on this town before he runs into this chick again. 

She looks a little bit confused at that. "Your little brother? Is there some reason why he can't take care of himself? Or--" She grimaces. 

Great, another comedian who thinks that just because Dean likes to be with Sam that automatically means that he's either gay or sleeping with Sam, which, okay, yeah, _gross._

"He has this tendency to get into scrapes when I'm not around," Dean explains, and that's actually more truth than she has any right to expect. "Anyway, uh--" 

"Shannon," she supplies helpfully. "You want me to make you some coffee?" 

"I should go, Shannon," Dean says, but he doesn't get up, because he keeps thinking about her reaction to Sam, and Dean wonders just what Sam is doing right this moment. Banging Ruby? Making plans to drag Dean to yet _another_ art museum? 

"Seriously, Dean, what's the big deal about your brother? Most guys don't turn down an offer like this for quality time with their siblings. I mean, well--" 

"I know what you mean, but he's all the family I've got left. And like I said, he does stupid shit when I'm not around." _Like hone his demon powers and fuck demons, or try to off himself on suicide missions, or drink himself into a coma._ But that was Dean's fault. He raised Sammy, he never gave Sam a chance to learn how to survive on his own, and then he died and Sam was alone. What else could he expect but that Sam would crash and burn? Sure, he'd hoped Sam would appreciate the life he had left, the result of Dean's sacrifice, but he _really_ , in retrospect, should have known better. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," she murmurs close to his ear, and leans up like she's going to kiss him. 

"He's such a dumb-ass," Dean finds himself saying, spilling his guts more than he intended to. But it's been months since he's had a conversation with anyone besides Sam that didn't involve a case, and he feels like he doesn't even know how to do it any more, much less be honest. "He drinks too much, he sleeps with all the wrong girls, and if I'm not home he gets his geek on in front of the computer for hours, which can't be healthy." 

"Online porn?" she asks archly, clearly amused by the idea. 

"Worse," Dean replies. "He does research. It's like he doesn't know how to have fun." 

"And you help with that?" Good God, is she waggling her eyebrows? What the fuck is with people? 

"He likes to play pool," Dean says dryly, "but he sucks at it, which means he always gets hustled unless we play together. And he won't go out unless I go with, because he'd so much rather trawl the internet." That's actually not all true, though, because Sam can hustle pool almost as well as Dean, but he's not about to say _that_. "Or he goes to the library and reads musty old books for hours." 

"Sounds like a real drag," she says. "Maybe you really should just stay here with me." 

But the more he listens to her talk, the more he's annoyed with himself for going home with her. He's the only person who gets to take the piss out of Sam, and this isn't cool, especially since Sam's not even in the room. He stretches again and throws his legs over the side of the bed, knuckles the sleep out of one eye and searches the room for his underwear. 

"I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean--" 

"I gotta go, Shannon, anyway. I've got obligations, and my little brother is only one of them." 

"But it's so early in the a.m.," she points out. "Nothing's even open yet." 

"I bet I can find a coffee shop that's open," Dean says, remembering that he didn't bother with underwear last night when he went out. His jeans are crusted over with blood at the hem, and he's thankful that she didn't notice that when she was undressing him. 

"I said I'd make coffee," she pouts. Dean does up his zipper and refolds the hem of his jeans into cuffs, hiding the bloodstains. 

"Don't want Sammy to have to get coffee by himself," Dean says absentmindedly, pulling his shirt on over his head. Thinking about Sam reminds him that Sam's got some freaky mojo lately, things that he's so obviously trying to hide, but only marginally successfully. 

"Sammy's a cute name," she tries hopefully, but Dean buttons up his over-shirt and grabs for his leather jacket, carelessly thrown over the lamp on the desk. 

"I'm the only one who gets to call him that," Dean bites out, and slides into his jacket. "Where the fuck are my boots?" 

"Did you try under the bed? I think you kicked them under there when you were--" 

"Good point, thank you," Dean says, cutting her off. He really doesn't want to remember last night any more. 

"You have a wicked car," she adds as an afterthought, and Dean just nods. "Seriously, Dean, if you have to go, call me?" 

"I will. I totally will," Dean lies, and programs her into his cell phone. He's never going to, though, because with any luck in a few hours he and Sam will be on some highway leaving all their problems in the rearview. Which, actually, will never be the case, but it's a nice fantasy, so Dean lets himself indulge in it. 

"It was nice," Shannon says. "I had a blast, Dean. I hope you have a _good time_ with your brother." 

"I'm not gay!" Dean expostulates, cramming his feet into his boots and practically running for the door. 

"You could be bi!" she calls out after him. 

Dean's never been quite so thankful to see his baby after that debacle, because at least she never judges him or asks awkward questions, which is actually more than he can say for Sam, too, come to think of it. 

Which becomes all the more painfully apparent when Sam looks up as Dean shuts the motel room door, the computer humming on the table, but Sam's in front of the TV with his sleeves pushed up and his hair dripping wet down over the back of his collar. 

"You have fun debauching the female population?" Sam asks. He runs his fingers through his wet hair and sends little drops flying towards the floor. Dean looks, really _looks_ , at Sam, and he's forced to admit that his little brother has a rare sort of beauty, but even if that means people look at them askance, it's never going to mean what those people think it does. Dean thinks about Shannon again and shudders. 

"I went out drinking," Dean says self-righteously, because there's no reason to give Sam any more cannon fodder for jokes. "And I hustled some pool and replenished our funds." 

"Yeah, I'm sure. That's why you smell like sweat and perfume and have lipstick on your t-shirt." 

"Like you could smell me from across the room," Dean scoffs. 

"Dean, dude, you haven't showered since yesterday morning. I could smell you if you were on the _moon_." 

"Ha, ha, very funny. You wanna get coffee?" he asks, making a valiant attempt to change the subject. 

"So, was she any good?" Sam questions instead. He's smirking, the smug little bastard. Okay, okay, not so little, but the sentiment remains the same. 

"Kind of annoying the morning after," Dean reluctantly admits. "And what is it about us, Sam? Why do people always assume we're sleeping together, even when I've _said_ we're just brothers?" 

"I think I explained this to you once before," Sam says. He wrings some of the water out of his hair and continues to smirk. 

"Dude, if you say I'm butch, I swear I--" 

"If the shoe fits, Dean," Sam interrupts, and looks back towards the TV. "Besides, you were the one who wanted people to think we're a couple. But next time, you think you could leave a note, though? I worried until I realised the Impala was gone too." 

"Seriously, Sam, did Dad lie to me about having a baby brother when he brought you home? Because sometimes I swear I can't figure out where you misplaced your balls." 

"Try looking under your bed," Sam quips. "If anything, you attacked me in my sleep and you're the one to blame." 

"All right, fair enough," Dean says, dropping heavily into one of the wooden chairs around the little motel table. "Coffee? Us? Some time this morning before we blow this popsicle stand?" 

"You don't want breakfast too?" Sam asks. "Dude, this show would be so awesome, if they hadn't done that one episode with the '67 Impala. I mean, it's still awesome, but even _I_ was offended." Sam smirks at Dean, obviously remembering Dean's incredible outrage when they caught that episode by accident. 

"Sammy, go blow dry your fucking hair so we can get our asses in gear." Dean is quite proud of the way he ignores Sam's attempts to wind him up, focusing instead on the fact that Sam isn't quite ready to go out. 

"Dean--" 

"I'm not nursing you if you catch cold, Sam, save the protests for someone who actually cares." 

"--I was just going to point out, Dean, that you've used the blow dryer in motel bathrooms a lot more often than I have." 

"I resemble that remark," Dean says with a grin, and Sam throws a pillow at him. 

"I'll be right out, then," he says, and unfolds his stupidly long legs out from underneath him and disappears into the bathroom. Dean looks over at the TV and agrees with Sam, because _Mythbusters_ can be a lot of fun except when they're strapping rockets to a '67 Impala and _blowing it up_. He's not sure he can ever forgive them for that one, because even though it wasn't _his_ car, it still made him wince in sympathy. 

The show goes to commercial, and it's an advertisement for some documentary on debunking the supernatural, which just makes Dean kind of irrationally angry. He'd have an easier job if people actually _believed_ in this shit. Then again, sometimes Dean wishes the supernatural wasn't real, though, like now when Sam's so subtly yet obviously different and demons all know their names. He used to think that someday he'd retire, find some stupid little cottage in the country with chintz curtains and an old-fashioned tea kettle and he'd park the Impala in the garage, buy a sports car, and give her a rest after a lifetime of loyal service. And he always pictured Sam just down the lane, maybe with a pretty blonde wife and a couple of blonde children, and maybe even the dog he'd always wanted. 

But now, that's never going to happen. Even if the world doesn't end -- and Dean's tempted to take up smoking just to calm his nerves -- Sam and Dean are never going to be safe, never be able to stop running. It actually doesn't bother him that much to be in this lifestyle till it kills him, but he hates that this is going to be Sam's life. 

Hates that Sam's never going to have a white-picket fence, never be able to become the lawyer he wanted to be. But, and this is key, Dean's _not_ going to stand back and watch Sam destroy himself in the pursuit of Lilith. It's not too late to give Sam what little normalcy there is left in their lives. 

It's not too late to save him. It can't be. 

\--//--

Sam brings over their coffees while Dean stares unseeingly out the window, a little bit cold and more than a little bit worried, because it's been months since they -- _Sam_ \-- exorcised Pestilence, and there's been nothing, no rumblings about seals, no strange visitations by angels who need to learn to use cell phones, nothing but the usual mix of hauntings and monsters to take care of. 

"Anything good out there?" Sam asks, setting down the little egg-carton tray. "You look like some really unbelievably hot girl just walked by and you're trying to use your X-ray vision powers to strip her out of her clothes." 

"That's real cute, Sammy, honestly. No, I'm just -- just thinking. Where's Castiel? This is supposed to be so urgent, but the angels are dead silent, the demons aren't talking either, we haven't seen Ruby in weeks and Uriel still hasn't come 'round to threaten you. So what's up?" 

"Maybe nothing," Sam says optimistically. "It's possible Lilith's on shore leave again." 

"That's really not reassuring, thanks," Dean says acidly. "Last time she did that a bunch of people died, and we were the ones that killed most of them." 

"We didn't have a choice, Dean," Sam says, sipping his coffee. Dean takes the cover off of his, blows on it, raises it to his lips. 

Puts it down before he even drinks any. "Sam, what's with the mind mojo?" 

Sam nearly spills his own coffee before he steadies the styrofoam cup on the table. "What are you talking about?" 

"Sam, a few months ago you said you heard something on the radio, and the car wasn't even on. You wanna try explaining that one?" 

"Dude, Dean, don't be ridiculous. Someone in the parking lot had their radio up loud, and I heard a snatch of it before they drove away." 

That _almost_ makes sense, but in light of everything else, Dean's not really convinced. He takes a huge gulp of his coffee to fortify himself, wake himself up a little, and twists the cup between his fingers as he tries to decide what to address next. Sam, meanwhile, shoves his coffee off to the side and powers up the laptop. 

"Thank God for wifi," he says, blowing some of his hair out of his eyes. 

"I don't think 'God' has anything to do with it," Dean says darkly. 

"Either way, I can look for our next gig while you sit there like a log and blow things out of proportion." 

"Sam, I don't think setting fires _with your mind_ is blowing things out of proportion and I say I'm a little bit concerned." 

"Was it the shrieking eels?" Sam asks. "They don't get her at this time, you know." 

"Thank you for that," Dean grumbles. "Listen, Sam, don't lie to me. Is there anything else you can do?" 

"No, of course not, Dean. I moved that bureau once, and I can sometimes sense energies, but nothing really dramatic. I mean, other than the fires." 

"And you can't read minds." It's not a question, because somehow -- and it might be because he's lived his whole life with the kid -- Dean knows that Sam's keeping things from him, although whether it's this or something bigger, Dean hasn't a clue. 

"No, Dean, I can't. I told you that. Even if I could that wouldn't be that different from what Missouri was able to do." 

"I'm gonna take a piss," Dean says, and stands up. Right this second, he can't stand to look at Sam's stupid face, framed by his stupid hair, look into those stupid hazel eyes and _know_ Sam is lying even though Sam won't own up to it. 

He pushes open the men's room door harder than is strictly necessary, and goes over, puts both hands on the sink counter and stares at his reflection. And then he whirls around, because there's an attractive brunette chick standing behind him, arms folded over her chest and one eyebrow raised. 

"You know Sam's lying to you, don't you?" Ruby says matter-of-factly. 

"Yes, of course I do, it's kind of obvious." Dean leans back against the counter, lazily looks her up and down. "To what do I owe the _pleasure_ of your company?" 

"Dean, it's one thing to exorcise a demon," she says. "But some of this other shit, I don't know, it worries me. Something's not right." 

"You're the one who wanted him to travel that road," Dean growls. She shrugs, winces a little. 

"I know. What I didn't know was that Sam would keep getting more powerful every time a seal breaks. I thought for sure he'd just go after Lilith, wipe her off the face of the map, save the day yadda yadda. But he's not really falling into line." 

"And if you really thought he would, Ruby, you don't know Sam at all. He's more stubborn than Dad ever was." 

"Ah, John Winchester," she comments. "Yeah, he was a stubborn bastard, made hell for us demons, even when they had him on the rack." 

"Wait, did you -- did you know my father?" 

"I only knew _of_ him. All the demons worth their salt did. And they all knew what Azazel did to John's widdle youngest son, and they spent a long time laughing over it. That's how I found out about Sam. Because I listened instead of joining in, and figured with the right allegiance, Sam could really be something special. But not like this." 

"And what is he like?" Dean asks curiously, pretending he doesn't have as much interest vested in her answer as he does. 

She spreads her arms. "I don't know any more, Dean. But if I were you, I would be careful around him. And ask him about those headaches. This is a whole new class of crazy, even for you two, Dean," she says, and then she pushes out of the room and is gone. Dean stands, reeling, and forces his feet to move, to carry him back to the table where Sammy's still got his head down and his nose buried in his laptop. 

He downs the rest of his coffee and slides back into the booth. "Sammy," he starts, and Sam looks up, stupid pretty eyes and stupid pretty cheekbones and all of that innocence writ all over his face, even though Dean's the one that stole that innocence years ago anyway, with one explanation of what was really out there in the darkness. 

"Yeah, Dean? Hey, I think I found something," Sam says, making to turn the laptop so that Dean can see it. 

"What's with the headaches, Sam? And the lying to me? I can't help you if you lie to me." 

"Now you just sound like Dad," Sam says, but Dean's clever enough to realise that Sam is avoiding his question this time. 

Sam's eyes are so beautifully earnest, but Dean doesn't believe it for a second. He gives Dean a little smile, kind of sad, really. 

"I'm serious, Sam," Dean prods. Sam just continues to smile sadly. 

"I never could get anything past you," he says ruefully. "I could lie to Dad, to anyone else, but never to you." 

"Just tell me, Sam, and we can deal with it together." 

"Dean, I'm not going to burden you with this. You have enough to deal with. Look, though. In Texas? You remember that cult run by David Koresh?" 

"Yeah, what about it?" 

"Well, people speculated a lot as to why he did it, why he formed the cult, what it really meant to him. A lot of hunters have thought it might have been a demon masquerading as some sort of deity. Anyway, along the same vein, there's this family, who apparently were as normal as it was possible to be until one of their teen-age sons died. And then they locked up their house, started chanting at all hours of the night, and dancing naked whenever it rained. Pretty bizarre behaviour, and when the police talked to them about it, all they did was answer in colours. I mean, the cops would ask a question, and the mom would say, 'blue', like that was an answer." 

"Sounds weird, sure. What does that have to do with us?" 

"Yeah, well, then the father kept being spotted on other properties, and, get this, an eyewitness said he had 'eyes like night-time without the stars'. Sound like a demon to you?" 

"Yeah, it really fuckin' does," Dean says. "So we make another trip down to Texas, I guess. You already call Bobby and ask him about it?" 

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, looking down at his napkin. "Yeah, while you were in the bathroom. And, uh, Bobby thinks the family's started a cult. But that's not all of it. He thinks a demon is behind the cult, and he thinks the cult is due to something more sinister." 

"What in the world is more sinister than a demon?" Dean asks, lifting his styrofoam cup and putting teeth prints into the edge. 

Sam's still not looking Dean directly in the eye. "Bobby thinks it might be a seal, although he doesn't have any other information than that." 

"Great. Another seal. Wanna lay bets on us not getting there in time to be of any use?" 

"Dean, even if the seal breaks, we still have to deal with the demon, and soon. That man's gonna wind up dead if we don't hurry." 

"I know it," Dean replies. "All right, let's drive down to Texas." 

"You don't wanna eat first?" Sam closes the laptop and leans his elbows on the table. "We probably have time for the special." 

"Nah, I ate earlier," Dean lies, even though he's starving. But despite his belly begging for food, he has no appetite. He gets to his feet, stretches, and does up two of the buttons on his shirt. "C'mon, Sam, let's try not to be too late this time." 

Slyly, Sam says, "Well, we could always fly down." 

Dean shudders visibly and grimaces at Sam. "That's a real funny joke, dude." 

"Yeah, well, I thought so," Sam replies, and shrugs into his tan coloured jacket. Dean looks at him for a long moment, and realises that Sam's effectively cut off all other avenues of conversation, which means whatever's going on with him is serious enough for him to do anything he can to keep from answering Dean's questions. 

The Impala looks like home to Dean, even though he knows that it's just going to be a metal prison for the next many, many hours, locked up tight with Sam who's locked up even tighter than a virgin on prom night. He puts the key in the ignition and revs the engine while Sam folds his stupid long legs into the passenger seat. 

And then he switches on Zeppelin again and Sam's mouth turns down, clearly irritated. That actually makes Dean feel better, as petty and childish as it is. He turns up the volume, because if Sam's not gonna talk to him, then he might as well blare his music at all and sundry. 

Sam immediately turns the music down. 

"Dean, look, we gotta be really ninja about this, okay? We can't just go busting in there. And we need a really good disguise this time." 

"I haven't the faintest idea what to use," Dean says. "After all, it's not like this is our usual gig. And how are we going to question the family if they don't actually answer directly?" 

"I got nothing," Sam admits, and fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans. "I'm thinking -- maybe we could be, uh, I don't know. Friends of their son?" 

"You don't think they'll notice that they've never seen us before?" 

Sam's eyes cut away from Dean, furtive and it's almost effective, except Dean's paying really close attention to Sam now, and so he knows that means something's up. 

"All right, Mr. Shifty Eyes, out with it. What's the plan, genius?" 

Sam fidgets in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, then brushes his bangs out of his eyes with one hand. "I can, uh. I can influence people." 

"Oh yeah?" Dean says mildly. This is new, but not particularly unexpected. "And what does that mean, 'influence people'?" 

"It means -- like what Andy Gallagher did. I can sorta, convince people of things. So, I could convince them we're friends of their deceased son, and they wouldn't know any differently until we left." 

"Sounds risky to me," Dean says. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. 

"It's not, really, it's just--" 

"I _meant_ , it sounds risky because it involves freaky mind mojo, and we've already talked about this, Sam, using the powers indiscriminately and often is just a recipe for disaster." 

"Not as much of a disaster if all the seals break, Dean," Sam says wearily. And it's true, Dean is getting sick of having this conversation over and over again. 

"Okay, so talk to me about this kid. How did he die?" Dean, being the considerate older brother and wonderful person that he is, turns off the Zeppelin tape. 

"I don't know that yet," Sam says. "I was gonna call in to the local police and ask about the police report. Pretend to be a reporter or something. Or impersonate a long-lost family member." Sam laughs a little, nervously. Dean figures that means Sam's planning to utilise some of the powers Dean just insisted he leave alone. 

"Well, you do that, then," Dean says, even though that's almost blanket permission given to Sam, and settles back into the seat even more, really getting down to the business of getting them to Texas as quickly as possible. Sam, meanwhile, punches some buttons on his phone. 

"Hello?" Sam says, and there's a long pause. "Yeah, I'm looking for some information on the death of Nathaniel Burgess. I'm from the state police and I understand he died under mysterious circumstances? Do you have any further intel on what happened to him?" There's an incredibly long pause this time, Sam nodding in Dean's peripheral vision, and jotting down notes in his little leather bound journal. After awhile he says 'mmhm,' and nods again. 

Dean's tempted to reach over and pinch Sam's thigh, just to be irritating, but he restrains himself, because the phone call _is_ important, after all. Eventually, Sam smiles and thanks whomever he's speaking to, hits the disconnect button and turns towards Dean. 

"So, the police have no idea. They said that it looks like he was murdered, but it was meant to look like a suicide -- they found him hanging in a locked room inside his house, and everyone else in the family was out of town at the time. But there's no kicked over chair, no indication that he actually _could_ have hung himself, not without help. So at this point they're thinking either assisted suicide or flat-out murder." 

" _Christ,_ I hope it is not feral children in the walls again," Dean says vehemently. "That is not something I want to experience again." 

"It's not a spirit, either, Dean. I think it was the demon. Think about it, the demon ties him up, strangles him, breaks his neck, and then makes it look like a clumsy suicide." 

"How does that work, if the door was locked?" 

"Dean, have you ever seen a demon that had a problem with locked doors? However they do it, they just randomly appear in places. And this demon would have a vested interest in killing this kid." 

"Or it was actually a suicide," Dean says, just to be obstinate. Sam huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring. 

"Dean, stop being difficult, I swear. It's like dealing with a petulant child. Anyway, what I can't figure out is why kill the kid. Because -- and this is the thing, Dean -- Bobby says there's something deeper going on. There's a reason Nathaniel died, and a reason his family immediately banded together right afterward and formed a cult." 

"D'you have a picture of this kid?" Dean asks, and Sam nods once. 

"Yeah, I downloaded it off his myspace." Sam taps his fingers on his journal, flips the pen he's holding around and around between them. 

"Can I put the radio back on now?" Dean asks, just because he knows it will piss Sam off. 

"Whatever," Sam says, and rests his head against the window. "I need more sleep, because you woke me up when you noisily snuck out to get lucky." 

"You should try it sometime," Dean retorts, but Sam doesn't answer, just closes his eyes and relaxes against the seat. He looks so incredibly peaceful, but Dean knows that there's more going on than Sam is telling him, and he can't help but be curious about whether Sam is really as complacent and placid as he looks. 

But he watches the road stretch out in front of him, seemingly endless white dotted lines, and he doesn't turn Zeppelin back on, because he truthfully can't remember Sam looking that relaxed in a long time, and contrary to popular opinion, Dean is not as much of a dick as he seems. 

The hours slip past unmarked and Dean's just about to drive over onto the shoulder and rest his eyes when the radio blares to life, loud enough to make his ears bleed and playing some emo rock song, and then it flickers from station to station, never staying on one long enough for Dean to identify it, and it keeps getting louder and louder until-- 

Sam sits up like he's been electrocuted, sudden and unexpected and the radio falls silent, and Sam looks at it, then looks at Dean. 

"Demon?" he says, eyes puffy from interrupted sleep. "Or a spirit?" 

Dean pokes at the tape deck, shakes his head. "I don't know, but whatever the fuck, I can't stand it when shit messes with my baby." 

"Yeah, I know, Dean," Sam says tiredly. "Are we anywhere close?" 

"About another hour, I think, and then we gotta stop for the night," Dean answers. 

Sam sighs, roughs up his hair with his fingers, then flattens it down, which does nothing to tame the little flyaway curls over his ears. He leans back, but he doesn't close his eyes and go back to sleep, and Dean -- well, Dean doesn't know why, but it strikes him as odd, because Sam still looks exhausted. 

Eventually they stop for the night, and once Sam's in bed, Dean grabs the motel key and creeps out, heads to a bar and drinks for hours, trying not to think about everything that's piling up on his head like garbage. The pressure is almost unbearable, and Sam's not helping, refusing to talk to him. 

He's on his fifth whiskey shot when he lifts his head and catches sight of a khaki trench coat, unearthly blue eyes, and chapped lips. Idly he wonders if Castiel realises he needs chapstick. Or, for that matter, if he even knows what chapstick _is_. 

"What are you doing, Dean?" Castiel asks, indicating the drinks. "You need to go back to your brother and tell him we see what he is doing and we are not pleased." 

"Fuck off, Castiel," Dean slurs. "Sammy's not listenin' to me, and I keep on tellin' him to give it up, anyway." 

"That is unacceptable, Dean," Castiel says. "Your brother is into more dangerous things than you can imagine. We believe he knows what Azazel's endgame was, and that he's intent on continuing to put it into action." 

"First of all, Sammy has no fucking clue, and secondly? Where the fuck do you angels get off, anyway? What makes you think Sam would do something like that? I mean, I swear, you stand around with your junk in your hands and beg us to help you, and then you show up and say shit like that? Don't say shit about my brother, Castiel. He's a much better person than anyone in this room." 

"Dean, be reasonable. There is no other explanation for why Sam would continue his disobedient activities." 

"Yeah, actually, there is, if you'd get your head out of your ass and see it. Sam's using those fucking ill-begotten powers because he thinks he can do some sort of good with them, and Sam is a good guy, Sam is always trying to save whoever he can. He doesn't have an evil bone in his body, Castiel, he would never willingly hurt anyone." 

"Dean, I know this is your brother, but we have seen darkness in him. We do not know what it means, but it is not good, and you are the only one who can rein it in. Do not disappoint us again." And then Dean looks up, and Castiel is gone. 

It figures that his stupid angel just keeps on showing up and never actually telling him anything _useful_. Dean downs the last of his shot and stumbles to his feet, staggers out of the bar and walks unsteadily back to the motel. 

Sam's asleep when he walks in, and the room is ice cold, although when Dean checks all of the salt lines and the windows, there's nothing. Just Sam shivering under the cheap blankets on his bed, and then Dean notices that the salt line around Sam's bed is broken. He's about to be alarmed when he realises Sam must have done it by accident when he went to bed. 

Dean fixes the line and sheds his clothes, burrowing into his bed and closing his eyes, listening to the welcome ticking of the clock by the bed, and sleep is slow, but it does come and swallow him up, for which he's grateful. 

\--//--

They drive up to the farmhouse early the next afternoon, and the front door opens before they've even gotten out of the car. The woman at the screen door is wearing a blue plaid dress, her hair in rollers down on her shoulders, and she looks like she's aged quickly in a short period of time. 

"Can I help you boys?" she asks, and Dean throws Sam a look, because he wasn't expecting her to be so coherent. 

"Yeah," Sam says, voice suddenly threaded with that strange tonal quality. "We're friends of Nathaniel's, and we just wanted to come by and see how y'all were." 

"Oh, terrible, terrible," she says, shaking her head. "It's a terrible tragedy." 

And then a man walks up behind her, stares hard at Sam. 

"Go back inside, Mae," he says. "I'll take care of these two." 

She nods and disappears, and the man opens the screen, steps out onto the stoop. He's a good several inches shorter than Sam and a couple inches shorter than Dean, too, but he exudes menace, and then his eyes flip black. 

"You're too late, Sam Winchester," he says. "The foundation is already in place, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. There is nothing you can do." 

Sam grabs him by the collar and slams him up against the vinyl siding. "Why don't you tell us what you did, you demonic son-of-a-bitch." 

"Oh, I don't have to," he says in an oily tone. "I think you already know, Sammy." 

Dean was lost at first, but the more the demon talks, the more Dean is questioning Sam and his recent inability to tell the truth. 

"Enlighten me," Sam says through gritted teeth. 

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" The demon smiles, eyes still black. "It was nice to see you, Sammy. Give my regards to your brother. And maybe you should tell him what you know?" 

Sam's about to exorcise it, Dean's pretty sure, when the man goes limp. Sam lets go of his collar, feels his pulse, and turns to Dean. 

"He's alive, but I can't figure out--" 

And then black smoke writhes out of his mouth, vanishing into the sunny, cloudless sky. Dean looks up as it wafts away, and grinds his teeth. That was poorly done, because there's nothing that says the demon won't be back as soon as they're gone. 

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get the fuck out of here for now. Obviously we gotta do some more research." 

Sam carefully lowers the unconscious man to the ground and stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans. 

"Yeah, you're right." 

They drive down the road a few miles until Sam suddenly sits up and plasters his nose to the window like a puppy on its first drive. 

"Stop, Dean, stop. I wanna go for a walk." 

"Okay, random," Dean says. "What the fuck for?" 

"Because I'm tired of always being cooped up inside," Sam returns, even though there's something distinctly shifty about the way he says it. "And that's a park, I wanna take a walk, we can totally talk there." 

"All right, princess, you got it," Dean says, and drives until he finds an empty space against the curb to park the Impala. He gets out of the car and pats her fondly, hoping she doesn't get sideswiped parked on the street like that, and walks over to Sam. 

Sam's strides are stupidly long, and Dean finds himself having to walk at a fair clip to keep up, even when Sam's not moving particularly fast. His brother's hair flutters in the slight breeze, and Dean has to admit it's a beautiful day, sun slanting across the grass, and the trees are limned golden by sunlight. 

"So tell me, Sammy, what was that demon talking about?" 

"it's uh, something Bobby said. He said that, uh, a sacrifice can be reversed." 

"Translation please?" Dean says. A few hundred yards away, there's a couple throwing a frisbee back and forth for their dog, silky fur and lolling tongue and Dean's reminded suddenly of Sam when he was a little kid, how badly he'd wanted a dog, and how the closest he ever got was a stupid stuffed animal. 

What Sam doesn't know is that the stuffed animal got blood on it one night when John got back from a hunt, and John had to throw it away after Sam had gone to bed. Sam had cried for days about it, and John had said it was lost, which meant Sam spent weeks looking under cushions and in every still-packed box he could find. 

Dean doesn't mean to do it, but he finds himself grieving quietly for the innocence of a child who loved a toy and lost it, who once was normal and carefree and didn't understand that his life was going to be nothing but an endless stretch of hell. And when he glances at Sam sidelong, his brother looks troubled, brow furrowed, like he's thinking the same thing, that once upon a time no-one knew that Sam had demon blood, and no-one knew that he was going to be the Chosen by some high-level demon that should have minded its own fucking business. 

Dean would give his life all over again to return that innocence to Sam, take away the demon's taint and all of the inferiority complexes that had come with it. Sam stops, then, stands with the wind in his hair, and Dean figures that's as close as he's going to get to an opening. 

Sam's not talking, and Dean remembers that he asked him a question, and wonders why Sam hasn't answered it yet. And then Sam turns and focuses on Dean completely, and it's a little disconcerting, almost like Sam's attention is a physical weight compressing his chest. 

"Bobby said that kid was sacrificed, because Lilith gave that task to that demon. Kill that kid, and then, uh. Bring him back to life." 

"But that's not possible without a deal," Dean says, more than a little shell-shocked by the revelation. 

"No, it is, at least now it is. I guess enough seals have been broken that some of the usual rules don't apply." Sam fidgets a little, picks at a piece of loose skin on his finger. 

"So, what, how is that a seal?" 

"Dean, these things come in threes. You know that." Sam looks discomfited now. 

"You," Dean says slowly. "Me. This kid. Three resurrections. And just like that, a seal is broken?" 

"Messing with the natural order of things is risky, Dean. It causes rifts, wounds in reality that can't be healed. So, fuck with it, and bad things happen." 

"Did the angels know that when Castiel 'gripped me tight and raised me from Perdition'?" Dean asks. 

"It doesn't matter if they did. They thought they needed you for something, so my guess is that they thought it was the lesser of two evils." 

"So, the demon says we're too late," Dean muses. "Either the kid's already alive, or he's about to be, and that demon was pretty confident." 

Sam scuffs his sneaker in the grass. "If they bring him back to life, Dean, he won't be the same kid. Not if a demon does it. If a demon does it like this, without a binding contract? He can do whatever he wants to that kid. I hate to say this. I hate this, I really do. But Nathaniel has to die _again_ if they bring him back, and either you or I have to do it." 

"Great." Dean glances up at the sky again, brilliant blue, hears the distant sound of the dog barking. "I wish you could have had that puppy," he says, even though he doesn't mean to. 

"It's not a big deal," Sam replies. "In any event, I think I better do it, Dean. After what happened to you in -- in Hell, I don't think you should--" 

"Yeah, but I'm not putting that on your conscience, too," Dean argues. "Besides--" 

And in that moment, Sam just sort of _falls_ , colliding hard with the ground, but it seems to happen in slowed-down time, like Dean's watching it from through a pane of glass, unable to reach Sam before his brother's on the grass, legs and arms jerking, eyes rolling back in his head. 

And Dean's not stupid. He doesn't know _why_ but he knows that this is critical information. He puts two and two together and realises that every time a seal has broken recently, Sam has had one of these episodes. 

He drops to his own knees and reaches for Sam, still thrashing on the ground, and Dean notices it's gone dark all around them, the bark of the dog no longer audible, and Sam's nose starts to bleed, flow of blood from both nostrils, painting his lips in shining crimson. Dean tries to wipe it away with his sleeve, but Sam continues to bleed, to moan a little, and then his eyes open. There's a flash of white light, like lightning just struck somewhere nearby, and Sam's body goes boneless, his eyes holding a funny colour in their depths, like nothing Dean's ever seen, but it's gone before he can analyse it. 

"What the fuck is going on, Sam?" Dean says, and he doesn't mean to lash out, but he's sick of being in the dark, of wondering, of asking, of being the fool that no-one explains anything to. He's tired of being Henry Blake and begging Radar for explanations. 

"The demon was right, we are too late," Sam says. "I just don't understand. Every time we find out about a seal, we're always three steps behind Lilith and her cronies. There's gotta be a reason why we can never actually succeed." 

"Sam, none of that's important right now. Are you all right? Because we gotta go deal with that demon and that -- that zombie." 

"He's not a zombie, Dean. He's probably not human, though, not entirely. More likely a demon." 

"All the more reason to hurry our asses up then. Don't need two demons running around unchecked in this county." 

"And I'm fine, I just have a little bit of a headache. It'll go away, don't worry." 

Dean helps Sam to his feet with a grip on Sam's bicep. They walk back to the car, silent and brooding, and Dean really wants to know what's going on. It's like a conspiracy, angels and demons and everything in between coming at them from all sides about keeping Lucifer locked up, yet no-one actually _helps_ them. 

By the time they get back to the farmhouse, it's raining in sheets, and Sam's soaked within seconds, his clothes moulded to his body, and Dean's not much better off, but at least his leather jacket protects him a little. 

They don't bother knocking this time, Sam just grabs his sawed-off and Dean holsters his pearl-handled pistol in his waistband, and Sam, ever the over-achiever lately, kicks open the door. Once inside, everything's ominously quiet, and even the rain pounding on the roof is muted. 

And Sam sucks in a breath and trains his gun on something in the shadows, which shift and move and resolve themselves into a young man with long hair, longer than Sammy's, and cool empty blue eyes. 

"I was wondering when you'd show up," he says casually. His hip is balanced against the wall like he's not facing certain death. "Did you tell Dean yet?" 

"Shut up," Sam snarls, raises the sawed-off. "I'm gonna send you back to Hell." 

"You would know a lot about Hell by now, wouldn't you?" The teen-ager comes a few steps closer. "You can shoot me, Sam, but it won't change anything. Seal's broken, your trust with Dean is broken, everything's breaking, and even if you send me back to Hell, I'm gonna rise up again. Like a bad dinner." 

"I don't have any fucking clue what you're talking about," Sam snaps. "Where's your father?" 

"Right here," comes a new voice, and Dean whirls around, whipping out his gun and clicking off the safety. 

"You're surrounded, and there's nothing you can do, is there, Sammy? Can't let the cat out of the bag." 

"I said, _shut up_ ," Sam growls, and then he takes a deep breath, and Dean turns, watches all of the water flow away from Sam's clothes and hair, leaving them dry. And Sam's other hand goes out, and just like that, the kid flies against the wall like his strings have been pulled, plastered to it and panting, arms spread, and Dean realises what he's seeing. 

Sam's doing that. Sam's holding the kid in place the same way demons always do it. Sam's getting perilously close to _being_ a demon in the scope of his power, and that makes Dean's blood run frigid in his veins. 

And from behind him Dean hears the dull thud of a body striking wood and knows that Sam is now strong enough to pin two people in place that way. Sam's breathing loudly in the stillness, and the demons are quiet now. 

"Not so smug now, are you?" Sam spits out, and fires his sawed-off. The kid, Nathaniel, slumps to the ground, blood pouring from a hole in his chest. 

And Sam turns around, lowering the gun, but not his hand, and the father's demon-smoke spills out of his mouth, collects around his feet and disappears into a ring of flames that leave the floor charred. 

"We are so talking about this," Dean says, giving Sam his most stern look. 

"But not right now," Sam says, and Dean's forced to agree as they make an escape before someone finds the body. 

_When Dean was eleven years old, his father went away for three days, and when he came back, he was grave and said a hunter was dead._

_That was right around the time Dean was in the process of crashing Catechism -- which he only attended because his daddy hunted demons -- and he was fascinated by the story of Lazarus._

_Surely once you were dead you stayed dead. There was no undoing that, death was the final strain of the orchestra._

_But Dean grew up, got older, smarter, but he never forgot that you didn't, couldn't, un-die._

_Until he was electrocuted and his heart was damaged beyond repair, and Sammy saved his life at the expense of someone else's._

_Until he was in a car wreck and lying in a coma, and John made a deal, and saved him yet again._

_He still believed death was the final word of the novel until he sold his own soul, ready to suffer in Hell for eternity._

_And then Sam couldn't find a way to save him, not that time._

_And Castiel raised him up, like Lazarus. Dean knows that wasn't right. Dean knows you can't undo death. Yet..._

_Dean died for Sam. Dean made a deal, gave up all of the rest of the years of his life except one, and when he died, he went to Hell._

_He tortured people in Hell. He liked it. He remembers that, and now, he looks toward the inevitable outcome and wonders if he'll be one of the good guys or one of the bad guys. Will he help people?_

_Or will he hurt them, just for the pleasure of it?_

_When Dean was eleven years old, he still believed in divine retribution. He still believed that people got what they deserved, and if his life was Hell, then that was because he'd never been a particularly obedient child._

_Not any more. Whatever's happening to them, it isn't fair, and Sam doesn't deserve it._

_Dean knows one thing for certain: if it was a choice between anyone else and Sam, Sam would always win out._

_That thought doesn't scare him as much as it should._


	6. interlude

**part six: interlude**

_Sam died when he was twenty-four. He was stabbed in the back, left in the mud, and the last thing he remembers about that was Dean rushing at him._

_But then Sam came back, and for the longest time that period he was dead was a blank slate, an unknowable set of circumstances. He was dead, he couldn't have memory of that time._

_But not any more. Sometimes, Sam catches glimpses, remembers silvery light and a fluid feeling of well-being. He wasn't tortured, he knows that._

_He wasn't in Hell, like Dean._

_He doesn't know where he was, but it was pretty and he was content, and his back didn't ache with splinters of sharp pain, and he was happy._

_He's not happy any more._

*

Sam has a sneaking suspicion. Sam fell down in a park, watched strange images float across the back of his eyelids, and when he woke up out of it, there was a bright flash of light. 

Sam's pretty sure that means he has another ability, and he's more than a little afraid that it's a lethal one. Not that he doesn't have other dangerous abilities, of course. 

But the white light, Lilith's light, or Samhain's light, can reduce a person to mere molecules, remnants of the cells that used to make them human, and this, this Sam doesn't want. 

He doesn't want it. He didn't ask for this, and he doesn't want it. He's not even sure he knows how to use it, and that's a big worry right there. What if he does it by accident? 

He remembers the last time he let himself sleep too deeply. Dean doesn't know the radio static was Sam's fault. Dean doesn't know. Dean can't know. _Dean can't know._

He opens the motel room door while Dean is out, and Ruby is standing there, her lips red and swollen and her dark eyes sparkling. He lets her in. He opens his mouth to speak and she kisses him, and he lets it happen just long enough to feel something and then he pushes her away. 

He sits down on his bed and she sits down on Dean's. She twirls her hair for a minute. He watches her, controlling his breathing, trying to keep every last bit of errant power under control. 

"You already know how to use it," she says. Sam nods. Sam twists his hands together in his lap. 

"I can't tell Dean," Sam says helplessly. "Dean would -- he'd hate me." 

"You know that isn't true. You have to tell him, Sam. He might -- okay, he probably can't, but the angels want him for something. So he might be able to help." 

"He already knows too much. He'd never look at me the same. I can't do that, Ruby, I can't." 

"Sam, you're falling off the reservation. This stuff, all this extra stuff? You shouldn't be able to do these things. _I_ can't even use that ray of death thing. And I'm a full-fledged demon." There's a funny look on her face that Sam can't interpret. 

Sam spreads his hands wide. "I can't explain it, Ruby." 

"Just don't direct it at anyone, Sam. Don't use it. Don't _ever_ use it." 

"You think I _would?_ " Sam feels his heartbeat pick up, start to race. Sweat sprinkles his skin. Ruby smiles a little, stands up. 

"It's been nice knowing you, Sam," she says. "You take care, and be careful," and then she's out the door. She leaves Sam feeling uneasy in a way he can't pinpoint. 

It's true; Sam _does_ know how to use it. It's a concentration and direction thing: if he meditates hard on enough on what he wants to annihilate, it'll just happen. 

Sam's afraid to sleep. 

_When Sam was a little boy, life was unusual but mundane enough, things like macaroni and cheese for dinner, puzzles with the pieces missing, Dean with his obnoxious older-brother tendencies._

_And when Sam was a little boy, he thought life was an adventure game. Every corner he turned was a new surprise. Sometimes he liked to pretend he was the prince, come to save the day, rescue the princess._

_Sometimes he was the dragon-slayer. Sometimes, he rescued Dean instead of the other way around._

_Sam was just a stupid little kid, and he didn't know enough then to know that his life was going to be an adventure game. Didn't know he'd grow up to be the dragon-slayer. Didn't know he'd have to do something for Dean someday._

_And once, when Sam was a little boy, he'd played video games, the one and only time he had a friend from school invite him over, and Sam wanted to be the villain._

_Sam was the evil overlord, and he took great pleasure in destroying villages and setting people aflame._

_When he told Dean about it later, his brother was angry, smacked him across the face and said, "Don't be a fucking prick, Sam," and Sammy didn't understand it, didn't get why it made Dean so mad._

_And then he was nine years old and it turned out monsters were real, and it made sense why Dean didn't like the thought of Sam playing at being evil, even in a stupid video game._

_Sam never played video games again, but that didn't stop him from living in one._

*

Sam knows he can't hide it from Dean much longer. He knows he can lie to anyone now, and have them believe it's perfect truth, except for Dean. It's kind of like how he can't read Dean's mind. He wishes he knew why Dean is immune to his otherwise omnipotent powers. 

Sam knows he's going to have to start to tell Dean at least some of it. Dean's a persistent son-of-a-bitch, he's not going to stop asking. 

Sam tries to figure out the best way to break it to him. _Yeah, you know when I sleep? My powers manifest._

That will never work. 

_Or when I'm awake, I can hear demons making plans._

That's a guarantee to make Dean both furious and unsettled. 

_And I can kill people with my brain._

Dean would probably refuse to be in the same room with him ever again. 

Sam lies back down on the bed, and waits for Dean to come back. 

*

_Dean used to cut Sam's hair. Sam hated to have it done, but John insisted for years, and Dean, being a perpetual repository for random facts, kept needling Sam about split ends, so he sat down on the wooden kitchen chair and swung his legs while Dean came close with the scissors._

_Dean was surprisingly good at it, actually, cut his hair short enough to please John while letting Sam keep it a little bit long. It was even mostly even at the edges._

_Dean used to bathe Sam, too, up until Sam was about five. John was always too busy, and Sam was too little to leave alone in the tub, so Dean made faces and put Sam in the water._

_And he never complained when Sam splashed, never scowled or scolded and that was always really important to Sam. His brother was the best big brother ever._

_Dean used to feed Sam dinner, and tell him stories to help him fall asleep at night, and Dean always kept the night-light burning, always slept in the other bed and if Sam had a nightmare, Dean would let him snuggle under his covers and press against his warm side._

_With Dean around, Sam was safe._

_Sam's not safe to be around any more._


	7. Chapter 7

**part seven**

_Lucifer can feel the earth shaking, the world shifting, wounded. He looks far out into the distance and smiles._

_People are scattering everywhere, almost as if they know, even though there's no possible way that they could. But a man garbed in a silver cloak, light shining out from within, silvery eyes, silvery hair, is walking among them, and they know that's not normal, even if they don't know what it means._

_But they will. He's waited so long for this chance. He's got his faithful lined up behind him, just waiting for the locks to break, for the door to open, and Lucifer is not going to disappoint them._

_He takes a step, in this new body,_ his _new body, his immortal soul filling every cranny and soaking into the very cells, his body, his forever._

_There's no stopping him now. No-one can resist his beauty, if he chooses them._

_There's one he's already Chosen. One that he will make his own right hand, keep close forever._

_There's no stopping that, either, because no-one can resist. The world is in the palm of his hand, like a shining red apple, and he's going to take a bite._

_He's going to pierce the skin and make the apple bleed._

\--//--

They had driven for almost three hours after the debacle at the farmhouse, and once they found a motel, Dean had given Sam a look that meant, _I'm giving you the third degree as soon as I feel up to it_ , and then he'd gone out the door and left Sam standing in the middle of the room, still looking pale and winded, skin almost translucent with a metallic tinge to it, and Dean doesn't know what that means, but he's sure it can't be good. 

Dean had gone to a bar, spent a good hour drinking whiskey and chatting up the girls that came up to the counter and settled onto bar stools around him, and he could _almost_ forget that Sam was back at the motel, could _almost_ pretend that his brother couldn't do a varied host of things that no human should be able to do, and it kept making his breath freeze up in his lungs to think about. 

Eventually, all of the girls meandered away, because even Dean knew he wasn't very good company. He was attractive enough that girls always gravitated towards him, but they could tell that he was preoccupied, so they'd sit down next to him and flirt, trying to pick him up, but when he wasn't responsive enough, they'd huff and go off, and it actually reminded him of Sam when they did that. 

Which would be why Dean's in the Impala now, driving aimlessly with whiskey sloshing around in his veins -- which is not something he'd normally do -- debating whether he should call Bobby and ask for his expertise. Dean's certain that Bobby won't really know anything about _Sam_ exactly, because to the best of Dean's knowledge no human has ever had power like Sam has now, not even the psychic kids like Ava. 

He decides to call Bobby anyway, though, ask him what he knows about the last seal that had just broken, if he's heard anything about the outcome of leaving behind a dead body -- of a kid who'd _already_ been dead -- and an unconscious one, and whether the police are looking for them. 

He flips open his phone and taps the button for Bobby's stored number, and it rings about twelve times, which isn't all that unusual if Bobby is buried in a book, and then he picks up, gruff voice on the other end: 

"Hello?" Bobby does sound kind of annoyed at being interrupted, but Dean figures they've got bigger problems, anyway. 

"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean. Listen, I'm driving around West Texas, and I wanted to--" 

"What're ya doin' in West Texas, kid?" Bobby asks, and there's a sound of rustling, like pages turning. Dean's about to go on with his original sentence when what Bobby's just said sinks in, and his train of thought grinds to a halt. 

"I'm, uh, I mean, we're investigating a case. Were, I mean. A seal. I thought you talked to Sam about this?" Dean puts his left blinker on and takes an exit onto a country road framed by trees. 

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Dean. I haven't spoken to Sam in months." 

"You -- you haven't? But he's been calling you. He's been checking in on things, he said so." Dean can't even concentrate on how pretty the scenery is, because he _knew_ Sam had been lying to him, but he'd had no idea just how _much_. 

"I don't know what to tell ya, kid, but I haven't seen nor heard from Sam in forever. I haven't gotten any intel about the seals except from you two, and the last seal you told me went was Pestilence. Which, nice job on that, by the way." Bobby sounds perplexed, but more rustling, and then he says, "look, Dean, I know it's been a rough few months, but you gotta give Sam some leeway 'cause he's dealin' with a lot." 

"That's no excuse for lying to me," Dean says darkly. "He's supposed to be on my side, trying to stop Lilith, not keeping shit from me." 

"Dean, if he thinks you're gonna be angry with him, or that you might treat him different, he's gonna keep stuff from you." Bobby turns another page, and Dean's kind of impressed that Bobby can apparently research and carry on a phone conversation at the same time. 

"But--" 

"Dean, you raised that kid. He cares most about what _you_ think about him, and so's he's gonna be close-lipped to you." 

"He should know by now that I'm not gonna change what I think about him. Why the fuck would I sell my soul for Sammy, then? Just to decide I hate him?" 

"Dean, try to look at it from his point-of-view--" 

"No, you know what? You remember I asked you if you thought he came back wrong? Right after he shot Casey the bartender with the Colt? Yeah, well, I think Yellow-Eyes wasn't just yanking my chain." 

"Why do you say that?" Bobby sounds genuinely curious. "He's the same person, Dean." 

"Because he can do shit -- _impossible_ shit -- with his mind, Bobby. I saw him pin two people to a wall, like the demons do. Psychic shit. What the fuck is going on? Every time a seal breaks, Sam gets stranger and stranger, and I just don't recognise him any more." 

"But Sam had those abilities before he died, too. Dean, listen, I can't answer that. It's possible that when the seals break they give off an energy and Sam's unwittingly taking advantage of it." 

"Then something big is coming. Bobby, we watched a demon raise someone from the dead _without_ making a deal. That's pretty big, important shit. This is fucked up. Lilith's holding every single card, and this is a game of poker I just can't win." 

"The angels wanted you for _something,_ Dean," Bobby points out. And Dean stops and thinks about that, and the conclusion he comes to is not a comforting one. Sammy listens to Dean -- well, some of the time -- and the angels keep begging Dean to keep Sam from using his powers. Which means they think Dean's the only one who can, short of an angel making Sam into Sam-dust. 

"Y'know, Bobby, I gotta go, I gotta go have a talk with Sammy." He pulls into the motel parking lot, not particularly surprised that he drove himself back to Sam without even thinking about it. He stares at the room number on the door of the room they're staying in. 

"You go easy on him, you understand?" Bobby says. "Take care of yourself." 

"Yeah. Bye, Bobby," Dean says, and snaps the phone shut. It's showtime, for better or for worse. He can't help wondering: if Sam didn't call Bobby, then how did he know all that information he gave Dean about the previous seal? 

When he gets back into the room, Sam is lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. At first Dean thinks he might be asleep, but then he hears the slight uneven rasp of Sam's breathing which betrays the fact that he's awake. 

"Hey, Dean," Sam says at last, and he sounds resigned. "I've been waiting for you." 

"Yeah? Does that mean you're gonna talk to me now?" 

"Ruby was here. She didn't stay long, and I think she's done with me for good. I don't think I'm gonna see her again." Sam doesn't sound quite as disappointed as Dean would expect. 

"Did you fuck her?" Dean asks bluntly, because frankly, he's pissed and Sam's being a dick, and Dean's had enough of it. The thing is, he can't help Sam if Sam won't talk, and he's sick and tired of feeling like he's missing something, like Sam knows what's coming and won't let anyone else in on the secret. 

"No, Dean, I did not fuck her. We talked, she gave me some advice, and then she bailed. I don't know." Sam sits up, balanced on his elbows, and finally meets Dean's eyes. "I think I'm sick, Dean," he says. 

"This isn't a game, Sammy, this is--" 

"I'm not fucking around with you, Dean. I'm telling the truth." 

And when Dean looks closer, really examines those eyes, he can see that Sam is being direct, honest. Dean feels his shoulders slump. Somehow this is worse than Sammy lying. This is Sammy giving it up, and Dean is so afraid of what his little brother is going to say. He almost wishes for the lies again, but then he straightens up. Dean Winchester is not a coward. He's going to listen to what Sam has to say, and then-- 

"We'll deal with this together," Dean says forcefully. "Whatever it is, Sam, I'm not just gonna give up on you. Why don't you know that by now?" 

"I didn't -- I mean, I know that. But I -- this is so fucked up, Dean. I used to be able to lie to anyone and no-one could tell, and then one day I woke up and I could tell when _other_ people were lying." 

Well, that's new. Dean's eyes widen. He takes a step closer to Sam, but Sam turns his head, his cheeks flushed, and takes a deep breath. 

"And you just -- you can't lie to me, can you?" Dean is less disturbed than he thought he would be, but he's still concerned that Sam would ever, ever use his powers on Dean. Doesn't he know that he can _trust_ Dean? 

"No. No, I can't. Dean, I don't know what's coming at us any more than you do, I just know that whatever it is, it seems to be hitting me first, in increments. I think Lilith -- I think she's unaware of what her actions are doing." 

"You mean, breaking the seals?" Dean plops down onto his bed, bores holes into Sam with his eyes, willing him to keep talking, to spill it all without clamming up again. 

"Dean, all that pain? I just. I hate this." Sam's hair is falling loose across his face, but Dean doesn't need to see his eyes to know that they're closed. "Every time she breaks a seal, it causes me excruciating pain, and that's usually followed by a new -- a new ability." 

Dean's actually stunned enough that he doesn't even feel it. His body's just numb, working on auto-pilot, as he stares at his little brother. What the fuck does it all _mean?_

"Sammy--" he starts, but he can't get the words out fast enough. Sam hurls himself to his feet, hair still shading his eyes, and he's got his hand on the doorknob before Dean can speak another word. He tosses one final glance at Dean from over his shoulder and then he's out the door, and Dean's alone in a room where the atmosphere is still throbbing in Dean's ears from Sam's confession. 

He gets up, wanders back and forth across the room for a minute, still stressed by Sam's words, and wonders what _else_ Sam can do. Wonders if Sam would ever do like the angels said, and use his powers to perpetrate evil. 

He flips open his cell phone, finger hovering over Sam's name, desperate to call him and apologise, tell him that it's all going to be okay, but for the first time Dean's not absolutely certain that's true any more. He used to be solid in his conviction, used to think -- to _know_ \-- that Sam could never be someone evil, could never be that person that everyone's been warning him about. 

But now Sam can do stuff that _no-one_ can do, and Dean's at a loss, his confidence shaken right down to its core. He closes the phone, squeezes it tight in his hand, his fist in his mouth, teeth sharp-edged against his skin and brain totally backed up against a brick wall. 

He drops into one of the wooden chairs, picks up the lukewarm beer Sam must have been drinking while he was gone and downs it all in one gulp. It joins the whiskey in his bloodstream and it almost fortifies him, but not quite, and he thinks about what Sam said, said about Lilith. 

And realises that Sam talks about Lilith like he knows what she's doing. Which, fuck, Dean doesn't _really_ wanna know how Sam knows that, but at the same time he gets that he should ask. Sam's still not telling him everything, and even though Dean needs to be informed as much as he can, he still wants to hide from the knowledge and pretend it doesn't exist. Maybe, that way, Sam won't be this person he can't understand any more, this person that used to be his little brother and now Dean doesn't know _who_ he is any more. 

The glass bottle is rigid and unyielding in his fingers, and Dean looks down at it, almost blinded by his thoughts, and then he picks it up and sends it flying through the air, a cloud of shattering glass and deafening noise as it collides with the wall. 

Dean doesn't get up and go over to clean up the glass. He should; Sam might step on it when he gets back. But he doesn't. And then he has a terrifying thought: what if Sam _doesn't_ come back? What if Sam thinks Dean wants him gone, or that Dean is uncomfortable around him now, and he _doesn't_ stumble back in drunk and miserable? 

Dean puts his head in his hands, feels his lips drag against his skin as he rubs his palm over his face, breath hot against his hand. Sammy's out there somewhere, and Dean can't help but wonder what Sam will do. 

"It's too late," Castiel says from next to his shoulder, and Dean jumps about a foot in the air, looks up. He should be used to this by now, but somehow, Castiel always gets the jump on him -- literally. 

"Dude, try not to kill a guy with shock, okay?" he snaps. 

"Dean, your brother's a lost cause," Castiel says, and he doesn't sit down, just stands there looking grave. 

"No. No, that isn't true. Sammy's _fine_ , damn you, and he's not gonna do anything stupid, and he's not gonna--" 

"He can't be saved, Dean. I know you tried. But not even dark magic can help your brother now." 

"Look, why don't you take your feathered ass somewhere else and talk to someone who _gives a damn_." Dean's shouting, but he doesn't care. He knows the angels won't go talk to anyone else, but he just wants Castiel _gone_ , with his prejudice against Sam, his stupid self-righteous bullshit about how Dean has to do what he's told, and yet the angels are fucking _useless_ , the seals are breaking and Castiel and his ilk haven't done a _fucking thing_ about it. 

"Dean, that's not even the most important issue right now. Lilith's on the move, and we don't know where she'll strike next. But you _must_ keep any more seals from breaking, at all costs. _There's only two left_ , Dean," Castiel says, and Dean's head shoots up at that. _Fuck._

"Two? That's it? Just two?" He can't even wrap his mind around it; the hamster that turns the crank in his brain is dead. Heart attack, and the funeral's on Thursday. 

Dean realises with a tingle that he's almost hysterical, faced with the end of the world, Sam missing, Sam _strange_ and unreal, and an angel staring at him like he's the answer to everything, when he _can't even save his little brother._ If he can't even do that, how can anyone reasonably expect that he can save the world? 

"You must stop it," Castiel says. "Forget about Sam and make sure Lilith does not succeed." 

"I can't do it," he says helplessly. "We don't even know what seals she's going to break." 

"Dean, I didn't drag you out of the Pit just so you could fail. Remember, Dean, if Lucifer is free? That's the end of it, Hell on Earth, and you'll feel like you're right back in the Pit. _Do not fail_ , Dean," Castiel says, and then he's gone. 

Dean's alone in the room again, frozen stiff like a corpse, unable to move, to think, to do _anything_. 

And then he grabs his phone and punches the buttons almost viciously, dialling Sam and holding it to his ear, desperate for Sammy's voice, for reassurance that it's _not_ too late to save Sam, that his brother can help him keep the seals from breaking, that he's not going to find himself at the mercies of demons like Alistair again. 

It rings and rings and Sam doesn't answer, it goes into his voice mail. Dean snaps the phone closed and stares at it, breath coming in sharp bursts that hurt his chest, struggling with Castiel's revelations and Sam's and all of it's mixed up together, making his stomach churn. 

And then the phone plays 'Smoke on the Water' and Dean opens it so fast he almost gives himself whiplash getting it to his ear. 

"What's the matter, Dean?" Sam asks, and it's the sweetest thing Dean's ever heard, Sammy's voice on the other end of the line, sounding just like _Sam_. 

"Castiel was here," he says, and he knows his own voice is splintered by panic. "He says -- two seals, Sam, only two are left." 

And Sam sighs. "I know," he says. "I'm on my way back, but I think we're already too late." 

"You -- how do you know?" Dean can't take any more startling revelations today. 

"Because I heard the demons talking about it," Sam says resignedly. "Dean, I think it's time to find out how to deal with Lucifer, because stopping Lilith is a moot point by now. She's got so many seals she could break, and I can only hear so much." 

"You hear -- you hear _demons_?" Dean feels his world bottom out all over again. Sam lets out a breath. 

"I'm just outside the room," he says. "I'll see you in a minute." 

Dean shuts the phone and watches the door, and Sam enters, looking just as distressed as Dean. 

"Sammy, what're we--" 

"Call Bobby," Sam says. "Call Bobby and ask him what happens when Lucifer takes over." 

"And you?" Dean says, fiddling anxiously with his phone. 

"I'm gonna search the internet for weird shit. Maybe we can still get there in time." 

Dean's waiting for Bobby to pick up as Sam boots up his laptop, but there's no response to the endless ringing at the other end of the line. He flicks his glance over to Sam, who looks anxious and resigned, and dials the number again. 

They don't leave the motel room for anything but take-out in two days, and no matter how many times Dean calls Bobby, there's no answer; if Bobby has a cell phone, he's never seen fit to share that information with Dean. 

\--//--

Dean is lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, trying to catch up on his sleep, when the TV blares on all by itself, a news channel, and he looks quickly at Sam, jumping to his feet and going for the holy water. Sam's sitting up straight in his own bed, eyes dark, unreadable, the skin taut over the bones of his face. 

"It's my fault, Dean," he says. And then he stops, arrested by the news. 

Dean takes one more look at Sam's eyes, because they look flat, like polished metal, and then turns his attention to the TV. 

His stomach swoops and drops, right down into his feet and through the floor. It's a national news broadcast, the small type at the bottom of the screen identifying the area as Alexandria, Lousiana. 

_No one can explain the epidemic,_ the newscaster says, a pretty woman with short brown hair. _The police are stumped. Five young children died this afternoon, all in different parts of the state, and there's no explanation as to why. There was no illness, and preliminary autopsies show that there was no heart attack or other physiological reason. They just stopped breathing._

_This comes just after a nursing home was shut down due to several residents dying in the same mysterious manner. And in a local discount store, seventeen employees dropped where they were standing, almost like they'd been frightened to death, but again, no apparent cause of death._

_And we have breaking news: this seems to be spreading. I just received word that the deaths are accumulating in an uneven swathe of countryside, right into Texas. I don't know what this is, but it's clearly something for the CDC, and I think--_

Dean grabs the remote and silences the TV. "We're in West Texas right now," he says, wonderingly. "Are we next?" 

"Has to be Death," Sam says, voice cracked. "She broke that seal, and -- and Dean, we can't fight Death. He doesn't need special powers or anything, he just looks at you and you go down." 

Dean's about to answer, filled with inexplicable dread, when Sam's breath whistles loudly out of his lungs, and he's on his feet, and it's so _weird,_ like Sam's skin is glowing a little. And Dean realises that Sam didn't suffer this time, didn't acquire any new abilities, but that thought is snapped into pieces by Sam's next words. 

"He's here, Dean. Go -- in the bathroom. Hurry! Don't let him see you--" 

"You think for one fucking second that I am going to let you face _Death_ alone? Are you out of your fucking mind?" 

And the door swings open, and Dean finds himself pinned like a butterfly to the wall, just out of sight of the doorway. Sam stands, body held rigid, and his very hair seems longer somehow, like it's trailing silver streamers -- but that's ridiculous. 

"Hello, Sam Winchester," says the demon at the door. Dean can't see him, but his voice sounds like leather, aged and supple. "You have nothing to fear from me. And neither does your brother," he adds. 

"You'll forgive me if I am less than inclined to trust you," Sam says in return. Dean still can't move. 

And then a dark shape enters the room, faintly humanoid but like a black hole, swallowing up all the light in its vicinity. And it goes down on what must be one of its knees. 

"I bow to your superiority," Death says, and Dean's eyes nearly bug right out of his head and onto the floor. 

"I beg your pardon?" Sam sounds just as confused and stunned. 

"When you take your place," Death says, "I will be ready to follow you, do all that you ask. I am in your service, your debt. I await your instruction." 

Dean can't believe what he's hearing, and he also has no idea what it _means_ , but it sounds ominous. 

"I have no fucking clue--" Sam backs up a step. "Look, you can't keep killing people, you wanna please me for whatever reason, you'll stop doing it." 

"I can't," Death says apologetically. "It's my job. I take the necessary sacrifices, and then when the time comes, Lucifer rises up, and--" 

"No. No, no, no. You--" Sam holds out his palm. "You're done for." 

The demon recoils, and Dean can read surprise in its amorphous shape, although he has no idea how that's possible. 

"This is not right. Has no one told you--" 

"Shut up," Sam says, and squeezes his eyes shut. The shape shivers and shudders, a faint skree coming from it like a distant scream, and then it dissolves into flames that scorch the floor. Sam steps back again, and Dean slides down, feet touching the floor. 

"What. The. Fuck." Dean grabs Sam, twists him around, and stares into foreign eyes. 

"I don't know," Sam says. "I just don't know." 

"Yeah, well we've officially passed over into weird territory," Dean says. "What the fuck did all that mean?" 

"I don't know, Dean. I'm not lying; I can only hear bits and pieces and--" And then he stops, eyes going round. "Dean -- what if, what if Azazel was Lilith's rival? What if, when we killed him, we gave her the free rein she needed to carry out this destruction?" 

"Yeah, and what if Azazel had the same plan?" Dean counters. Sam shudders a little, his shoulder shaking beneath Dean's hands. 

"Even if he did, Dean, why? And what did I have to do with it? Azazel wanted me alive, Lilith wants me dead. I bet she sent Death here on purpose. Which means -- which means she didn't expect him to refuse to kill me. And hell, I don't even know how that works. And the sacrifices? What if Death had already given Lilith enough?" 

"We should sleep," Dean says. "We haven't slept in days, really. We're never gonna be ready." 

There's another knock on the door, and Sam and Dean look at each other. Dean goes over, grabs the knob and peers through the peep hole. 

And opens it to reveal Bobby standing there, all plaid flannel and trucker cap, beard grey and grizzled and eyes very, very serious. Dean's eyes nearly bug out of his head in surprise. 

"Boys," he says in greeting, coming into the room. "Thought the two o' ya could use my help, maybe." 

"We have no idea what's going on," Dean says first, and Sam nearly talks over him. 

"Death just got down on his knees in front of me." 

"Well, yeah, that ain't good. Look, boys, I got some books in the truck, and pretty much everythin' says that -- well, it ain't good." 

"Does it give any idea how to stop Lucifer?" Dean asks, and realises he's actually wringing his hands. 

"Nah, nothin'," Bobby says. "I mean, I might have that intel somewheres, but at the moment? I'm still on the offensive, tryin' to keep the last seals from breakin'." 

"There's only one left," Sam says. "That's it. We gotta find a place to hole up, I think, make plans and gather up our weapons and get ready to face an army of demons led by the most powerful demon ever." 

"That's not right, Sam. Lucifer ain't a demon; he's a fallen angel. Yeah, he's about as evil as it gets, got all that fucking power, but he's in a class all by himself, which is the problem." 

Sam paces the room, head lowered, clearly thinking. Dean falls back into a chair and looks at Bobby. 

"So what now?" 

"You go after Lilith," Bobby says. And then he looks hard at Sam. "Hey, Sam. I know you haven't been tellin' Dean everything. And I know that you can wipe out a demon, even a powerful one." 

"But not Lucifer," Sam says in defeat. "Not if he's an angel." 

"No, but you could break Lilith's neck, Sam, put an end to her shenanigans once 'n for all." 

"I don't even know where she _is_ ," Sam says helplessly. "She's the one demon I can't track." 

"So? We found her before, and I brought my device. We'll just pick her out and take care of her." 

"She's being more careful this time," Sam says. "And I don't know why she stopped trying to kill me, or trying to have me killed." 

"Listen, boys, I did some research, and I found a book -- an old friend had it -- that talks about demons and blood rituals. Says that if a demon taints a human with its blood, that human'll eventually be able to do whatever that demon could. And there's more. This is the part that's strange, but it makes a kind of twisted sense: the more that human's loved, the more powerful they'll get. You separate them from any kind of affection, and you bleed the power dry." 

"So, what? I can't be around Sam?" Dean asks incredulously. He looks at Sam, tries to think what it would be like to never see him again. The ache that blossoms in his chest feels like dying all over again. 

"No, it's too late for that anyway. No, the point I was making is that if you two stay together and face up to Lilith, Sam oughta be unstoppable." 

"That's somehow not as comforting as I think you meant it to be," Dean remarks. He rubs his fingers, turns his ring 'round and 'round. 

"I'll just go an' get my stuff," Bobby says. "Then we find Lilith and we put a stop to her shit." 

Bobby walks out of the room, and Dean turns to Sam. He's about to speak when the floor beneath his feet starts to tremble, jarring his bones and his teeth and gradually getting stronger, fierce shaking that throws Dean to the ground, crashing against his shoulder. 

The room fills with silvery light, and Dean can't see anything through it, can only feel pain in his shoulder and an unbearable pressure on every inch of his skin, like his body's being compressed and squeezed into a tube. 

And Sam screams. 

It goes on and on, Sam screaming endlessly, and Dean worries about Bobby with whatever thoughts he's got left, but not as much as he's terrified for Sam. He's totally unable to figure out what's happening, Sam sounds like he's being _killed_ , and Dean's breath is stuck in his chest, his heart out pacing his body, and he wants to get up, but the world around him won't stop heaving and shaking. 

He can hear glass breaking, wood splintering, and Sam screaming like his skin is being flayed off. 

The silver light starts to ball up, like mercury does when spilled, coalescing and settling and gradually Dean can see into the room again, can make out everything but Sam, who's lost in the midst of that silver cloud. 

And then it clears completely, and Sam is no longer screaming. He's standing straight, skin sparkling like it's littered with a million bits of silver glitter, his hair dark with silver dripping from the ends, again like mercury, and his eyes, when he turns them on Dean, are completely silver. 

The rest of the motel room looks completely normal, but Sam looks like something out of a science fiction novel. 

He gets down on one knee and offers his hand to Dean, and Dean tries to look into those eyes, but there's no depth, simply flat metallic sheen. 

"It's done," Sam says, and Dean feels the knowledge thud into his soul like an plane landing. 

The last seal is broken. 

Lucifer's risen. 

And Dean is looking right up at him.


	8. Chapter 8

**part eight**

_Far, far below, a young man throws his arms out wide, and the city starts to burn._

_The pillow is soft and fluffy in the woman's hands, her smile sweet._

_Every word is a benediction, spoken in a voice not heard for centuries._

_Lucifer has been waiting for his time, and his time is now._

_There's one he's already Chosen._

_He's going to pierce the skin and make the apple bleed._

Lucifer's risen, and Dean is looking straight at him. He should have seen this coming. He should have understood what all of those signs meant. They were like neon signs flashing above Sam, and yet not one of them suspected. And he should have _known_ that Sam would be the perfect human vessel for a millennia-old fallen angel. 

Sam is still looking at him, hand outstretched, like he's planning to help Dean up, which, frankly, was not the reaction he was expecting. More death and destruction, less consideration of Dean lying on the floor. 

"You--" Dean struggles to breathe, to speak through the constriction in his lungs. "Get the _fuck_ out of my brother, you foul piece of angel refuse." 

Sam actually looks _hurt_ , his eyes broadcasting pain even though there's still no depth to them. He drops his hand and gets back to his feet, walks to the bed and sits down. His hair looks like there's mercury shadows flowing from the ends, and Dean has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

He figures that's probably the point: if you were going to be the Devil and try to tempt people into evil, the more attractive you were the better your chances of success. 

"I'm not possessed, Dean," Sam says wearily. He runs his fingers through his hair, and the atmosphere in the room shimmers like a heat wave. "But you can test that theory if you like." 

Dean staggers as he gets up, stands on wobbly knees and stares at Sam. 

"And what would be the point of that?" he snarls. "If you really _are_ Lucifer -- and I have my doubts about that -- then why offer me the chance to send you back to Hell?" 

"Because you can't." Sam offers a rueful half-smile. "I've been sealed, but now I've been freed. Go on, Dean. Try to send me back to Hell." 

"I want my brother back," Dean growls. "I want your filthy stink off my brother. I want you _out of my brother._ " 

The door crashes against the wall, and Bobby is standing there, a pack over his shoulder and an expression on his grizzled old face that Dean has never, in his life, expected to see. Bobby throws the pack down to the floor and comes closer, a flask of holy water in his hand. 

"You're not comprehending, Dean. I'm not a spirit. I needed a human body, and I have one. Your brother -- he's gone." 

"This -- this is--" Bobby stops, flat-out amazement on his face, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Sam's shining silver in the room, like a beacon of light. "She did it?" 

Dean walks on unsteady feet over to Bobby, claps one hand on his shoulder. "This is impossible," he says quietly. "Sam was human. Sam was born to human parents. How could he become this -- this _thing?_ " 

"Because Sam was special," Sam -- Lucifer -- answers instead, and for the first time it starts to sink in that maybe this is absolute truth, maybe Sam is truly gone. 

That thought makes Dean feel empty and cold, like his guts have been scooped out and replaced by blocks of ice. There's gotta be something he can do -- he's not going to let Sam be swallowed up by evil -- _he swore to save him_. And he's still not ready to give that up. 

"Sam had all those powers," Bobby says slowly. "Sam was becoming _something_ for months, Dean, I guess we can't be all that surprised that there was a pot of rot at the end of the rainbow." 

That seems like an odd thing for Bobby to say, but Dean is somewhat preoccupied by the fact that the broad-shouldered, long-haired young man who _used_ to be his brother is currently the risen form of the Adversary, sitting in their motel room like he's perfectly innocent and not the ancient embodiment of all evil. 

"This is still impossible. Sam was _human_ , Bobby. He was my _brother_." Dean knows he sounds ridiculous, knows that he's making no sense because he can't force his brain to acknowledge reality, but this is just so fantastical, so out there it's like being told aliens are real and have landed on the Impala. 

"You get a free pass, Dean, but just one. I'll even hold still quietly, all you have to do is try to send me back to where I came from. Although I gotta say, there's a lotta demons out there that'll be over the moon with joy that I truly exist, that their faith has been rewarded. Isn't that more than you can say about your angels, Dean? Have they ever even _seen_ their God, the one they obey, the one they pray to?" 

"You close your filthy mouth," Dean snarls again. He walks over to Sam. _To Lucifer_ , he reminds himself. "I _am_ going to force you out of my brother's body, because you don't belong there." 

He shrugs, eyes unearthly and focused on Dean. "I wouldn't piss on an offer like this one, Dean," he says. 

"And what offer is that?" Dean leans down, hands on either side of Sam's thighs, their faces almost touching. Never let it be said that Dean isn't brave. 

"I'll tell you as soon as you do what you have to do to be satisfied. And don't be so sad, Dean, Sammy's become something greater and more powerful than you ever could have imagined." 

Dean wonders why Bobby's so quiet, and when he turns back to him, Bobby's holding a book open, eyes filled with sorrow. 

"I'm sorry, Dean," he says, and starts to read. Dean recognises the exorcism ritual, the one that he and Sam have used hundreds of times, the one that Sam had memorised and could recite with perfect inflection. 

Dean backs up, watches closely, but there's no indication it's having any effect whatsoever. He picks up a holy water bottle of his own and splashes some of it on Sam's chest, but all that does is make the silvery light surrounding Sam pulse brighter, and when it settles down again, Sam's clothes are still completely dry. 

Bobby reads, and Dean watches, and nothing happens. _Nothing happens._ Sam -- Lucifer -- bored, examines his fingernails. He purses his lips on a soundless whistle, and Dean realises that Sam -- Lucifer -- isn't actually _breathing_ any more. And, well, he's never seen a possessed human be able to do _that_ before. 

Bobby finishes up the exorcism, and the silver light is still present, the form of his brother still more beautiful than he's ever beheld, and the room is filled with an atmosphere the likes of which he's never felt. 

Sam -- Lucifer -- turns to Bobby. "You have five minutes," he says. "I know Dean loves you, so you have five minutes to make yourself scarce. After that, anything that happens is your own fault." 

Bobby looks at Dean, and Dean realises what this means. Lucifer isn't said to be merciful, and if for whatever reason he's willing to be considerate of Dean, then Bobby's only recourse is to leave. 

"Go," Dean says, voice crackling. "Go, and don't look back. I'll be fine." 

"Are you--" 

" _Go_ ," Dean repeats, "and hurry." 

And Bobby does as he's told, leaving Dean alone in a room with the centuries old incarnation of evil. 

"What are you playing at?" Dean asks, when Bobby is gone. "If you're supposed to be so evil, why be so accommodating? Why not just kill us both?" 

"Because -- it's complicated to explain. You're a prodigy, Dean. You're already more than half-way to being just what I need. And simply because Sam is gone doesn't mean what Sam loved is any less sacrosanct." 

"That makes _no_ fucking sense," Dean swears. He points a finger at Lucifer. "If Sam is dead and gone, then why do you care if he _loved_ anyone?" 

"Sam's not dead and gone, Dean. Not the way you mean. Sam is -- _more_. Sam is me and I am Sam. And I'm making you an offer, Dean. Come with me. Join me. The other side -- the angels' side -- has lost, Dean. The world is going to be my playground to do with what I will, and you are the only person I will not harm. This is your last chance, Dean: take it or leave it." 

The worst part is the almost overwhelming desire to go along with it, to be a part of Sam no matter what Sam is, but Dean buries that desire ruthlessly. He didn't spend the better part of a year trying to win this war just to go over to the other side when the going got tough. 

"I'm leaving it," Dean says, and waits for the brilliant flash of white light that means his life is ending. Lucifer, though, looks genuinely surprised. 

"But you -- this is the best offer you're going to get." He turns round in a circle, like he's thinking. "You can't win, Dean, it's all over already. Staying with that side just means that sooner or later you're going to be washed away in the same ocean of blood as everyone else." 

Dean doesn't understand why he's trying so hard to recruit him, doesn't understand why Lucifer, if he's so evil, would spend so much time just _talking_ , but it occurs to him that the longer he can keep Lucifer in one place, off-balance and holding a discussion, is more time he has to figure out how to save Sam. 

And Dean's not ready to write Sam off just yet. That would be inexcusably shallow. 

"Then I guess that's what's gonna happen," Dean says in resignation. "I can't join you. I can't go down that road." 

"But you already _have_ , Dean, don't you remember?" Lucifer says persuasively. His very voice and form is coercion, but Dean refuses to be taken in by it. 

"That doesn't count. It doesn't mean anything," Dean says, trying hard to believe it himself. Because maybe, just maybe, if he says it with enough conviction it will be true. 

"Dean," Lucifer says gently. "You loved every moment. This will be just like that, but without the initial pain and torture, and no-one will be able to hurt you. I will be protecting you, and for anyone that hurts you, my wrath will be swift and merciless. Come with me, Dean. Come with me." 

Dean looks up through tears that have fallen like a curtain over his eyes. This is not what he wanted, to be faced with the option of staying with his brother, the last of his family, or being left alone to face what's coming. And Sam -- Lucifer -- sounds so earnest, so much like he's telling the truth. _Loving_ even, which is not what Dean would have expected. 

But he has to turn it down. Even without the angels' expectations, Dean has to turn it down. 

"I can't, Sam, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm going to find a way to save you." 

"That you can't do," Lucifer says. "It's already far too late for that, if it was ever possible. I'm sorry, Dean." And he stands up, a cloak of silver whirling around his body, and opens the motel room door. "You still have a choice, Dean. Come find me when you're ready to deal. And don't wait too long -- I'm not going to bring you back to life if you die before that happens." 

The door shuts silently, and the air in the room settles, cold and devoid of anything. Dean stares hard at the door and thinks about Sam's -- Lucifer's -- last words. 

He can bring people back to life? 

\--//--

The thing is, Dean knows things are gonna change. He expects it kind of like the way he expects the Impala to guzzle gas. What he doesn't expect is that it will start so dramatically, within hours of Sam walking out the door. 

He's lying on the bed in the motel room where he last saw Sam -- Lucifer -- and his head aches, his skin feels too tight, like it'll crack if he smiles. Not that he has any reason to smile, though. He covers his face with his hand, tries to block everything out, tries not to remember the way Sam looked. 

He knows Sam isn't really in there any more, but he can't think of him as _Lucifer_ , he just can't. It's too much like a betrayal, like he's letting Sam down somehow. And, eyes open underneath the weight of his forearm, he can't see anything but darkness, and maybe that's the point. 

Sam offered him the world on a platter, the chance to be with him forever -- Dean wonders if this means Sam is immortal now -- and Dean spit on the chance. But it's more than that. Dean thinks back to every single thing he's ever known about Lucifer, and realises that he's pure, undiluted _temptation._

How much of that offer was real, and how much of it was an attempt to get Dean to give in? To do evil, to become evil, because it's what Sam -- Lucifer -- wanted? Dean wants to believe that Sam would never do something like that, never deliberately put Dean's immortal soul in danger, but then again, he has no idea how much of Sam remains, if there's any of him left at all. 

It's making his brain hurt, to try and discern the truth in the lies, like looking for gold in silt. Lucifer wanted him, but why? Because Sam loved him, or because it would be entertaining -- and diabolical -- to turn Dean evil? What if _that_ was the plan: turn Dean, so that he took pleasure in helping to annihilate everything good in the world, and then vanish like a puff of smoke, leaving Sam behind, heart-broken and devastated by Dean's choices? 

The more he thinks about it, the more he's both amazed he managed to resist at all and positive that he shouldn't have taken that offer, no matter how tempting. The only thing is... 

Bobby told Dean long ago that Lucifer was apparently irresistible. 

So: how did Dean do it? 

It takes a minute, but Dean starts to notice that his brain hurts more and more, his skull feeling like it's being peeled away, pain like he's only felt once before in his life: when Andy telegraphed a vision into his brain to help him find Sam when Sammy was missing, wandering Cold Oak, South Dakota. 

And that's when it starts: little flashes at first, white lines, static and fuzz like he's looking at a television set without cable, but then it starts to resolve into actual images, and the very first one is of Sam -- Lucifer -- standing tall like he's larger than life, silver still clinging to every pore, and then he bends down, and it all explodes in Dean's brain-- 

_Sally Masterson is twenty years old, and she's spent her entire life in this stupid one-note town. But this is it, she's getting out, she's gonna take a train and go make a name for herself, maybe become a model. She's always heard, from everyone, how beautiful she is, how unusual, and how much money she could make if she marketed herself just right._

_She's pretty sure that Josh meant selling her body on the street, but everyone else was probably sincere, so she packs a bag, withdraws some money from her bank account, and makes her plans._

_That's when she meets_ him _though, gorgeous dark hair, incredible hazel eyes, bone structure to die for and he's all over her. He tells her his name is Sam, and that he'd like to make her an offer._

_She figures it must be a modelling offer, so she grins and holds out her hand. When he takes it, he puts it to his lips, a kiss like butterfly's wings brushing across her knuckles, and smiles. His dimples are so luscious it hurts._

_"You're such a beautiful young lady," he says, and she nods; of course, she knew that already. And he holds onto her hand. "I'd like to make love to you," he says._

_She wasn't expecting that, and she'd been such a good girl, saving herself like her mama said she should, but this guy is so gorgeous, and he's tall and she's never had anyone like him ever give her the time of day, even with her so-called beauty._

_So she gives in, and he makes her crazy, laying her down on her feather bed, but he doesn't get undressed, and he doesn't undress her completely, and she's just about to ask why when he straightens up, lips curved down, and she says:_

_"What's wrong?"_

_"I just can't do it," he tells her, and nothing seems right in the world any more. "I thought I could -- you know, Josh paid me a lot of money to sleep with you, but I can't do it. Such a whore; you'd give in to anyone, wouldn't you? And so damn homely I can't even bear to look at you."_

_She grabs for the blankets to cover herself, bra and panties, ashamed. She'd thought he really wanted her, and now this? Her confidence is shaken to the roots._

_"J-Josh?" she asks. "Why would he do something like that?"_

_"Because he knew you'd put out, and he gave me so much money, but I just can't. You make me sick to even look at. And you -- you'd sleep with anyone. I can't countenance that kind of behaviour."_

_He leans down, so beautiful, and she aches from wanting him, wanting him to touch her, to take her, to cover her with that long, lean muscled body, and his breath is -- well, see, that's the strangest thing, he's right next to her ear, but she doesn't feel his breath as he whispers into it._

_"You'd be better off dead," he says. "No-one really wants you around."_

_When he leaves the room, she's left alone, shivering despite the blankets, anxious and desperate for his hands on her. But he told her the truth._

_She'd always known that she wasn't anything special, always known that no-one wanted her around, knew, too, that Josh was full of shit when he told her he wanted her body, even though she'd sworn she'd never give it to him._

_She doesn't even really know why, but she finds herself on Josh's doorstep, still only half-dressed, and when he opens the door, she flings herself into his arms, kissing sloppily._

_He takes her to bed, and she learns what it feels like to be filled up completely, just as she learns what it feels like to be so damn empty when it's over._

_It's not hard at all to slip into his bathroom, search under the counter, and find the drain cleaner._

_It's even easier to drink it. She doesn't taste a thing as it goes down._

Dean's always prided himself on being stoic and strong, but he kind of wants to cry as the vision recedes. It's a thousand times worse this time, so much different from watching a grainy video where Sam, possessed by Meg, slit Wandell's throat. But this time -- so coolly deliberate, so manipulative, he coerced that girl, who never had a prayer of resistance, and sent her right into her grave. 

She'd been pretty, too, the type of girl Dean would have slept with, the type of girl that really could have made it big, until Sam showed up and wrecked that for her. 

It's that, more than anything, that turns Dean onto believing maybe Sam is truly gone. Lucifer didn't seem so dangerous when he was standing in front of Dean, but now, Dean knows he miscalculated. Lucifer -- using Sam's 'dewy sensitive eyes' -- is incredibly dangerous to anyone else _but_ Dean, it seems. 

And Dean can barely even contemplate what it means to have _seen_ it all, like he's tuned into the channel of Sam's brain, having visions like Sam used to have, although he's pretty sure it's not for the same reason. 

Dean never should have let him go off. Dean should have accepted his offer, anything to keep a closer eye on him, to try and mitigate the damage he could cause. 

He's about to get up, go look for some aspirin and his cell phone, when there's a cool hand on his forehead. 

He never expected to see her again, and she looks different, still so lovely but not the same girl, and Dean only knows who she is because he recognises her smell, which is kind of weird. ( _Maybe it's the smell of her grace,_ his brain supplies rather unhelpfully.) 

"Anna," he says, voice gravel-rough. He struggles to sit up, and she helps him with slender hands. 

"We tried to warn you, Dean," she says, but she sounds sad. "We didn't know _this_ would happen, of course, but we did try to tell you." 

"There wasn't -- we tried so hard. But, but -- Sammy. I need my little brother back." 

"He's doing terrible things, Dean, and you'll only ever see a fraction of them. The humans -- they can't discern his otherworldliness, don't realise what a danger he is to them. He'll start off petty, Dean, persuading them to make dangerous choices, but it is only a matter of time until he brings his full force of demons forth and the world starts burning in hellfire." 

"He's not -- I failed. I failed, Anna. I killed my little brother." 

Her hands are still cool as she strokes them over his forehead. "You know what you have to do, Dean, don't you?" 

"I won't do that," he says, and knows it's true. There's nothing -- _nothing_ \-- that can make him do that to _Sam_. 

"We're not even sure it's possible, Dean, but if there is a way, you have to find it, and stop him." 

"No," Dean says, even though he also knows she's right. 

"I'm sorry, Dean," she says. "I'm in the doghouse, as it were, so I can't stay. But I had to come -- had to tell you I'm sorry." 

"Anna--" he says, but her hands are gone, his forehead feverish, and she's gone, and he's grasping at nothing. 

It won't be the first visitation, nor the first impassioned plea to stop Sam -- Lucifer -- from wreaking havoc. 

Dean resolves not to do it, anyway. He could save him. _He still could._

_Alyssa Trenton's only just been married a year. Her husband, Vince, has a successful business, and their new baby is the biggest blessing of her life. She smiles down at little Grey, tickles his tummy, and she's never been so happy in her entire life._

_She's home with only the baby for company when the doorbell rings. And when she answers it, there's a tall young man standing on the steps, his eyes hazel but a little bit strange, and he smiles at her, dimples cutting into his cheeks._

_"Your husband sent me," he says. "I work for him at the plant. He wanted me to check on you because there's reports of a man with a knife roaming the neighbourhood."_

_Alyssa's entire body goes cold. Her baby is just in the other room, and what if that man comes here? What if he hurts Grey? She wants to run into the nursery and pick up the baby, but the young man comes closer._

_"My name is Sam," he says. "Trust me?" And she does, immediately. She warms up to him, and he walks into the house. There's a strange sort of aura surrounding him, like mystical energies and she can almost make it out, but not quite._

_"Come meet Grey," she hears herself saying, and she turns, leads the way into the nursery. And Sam follows her, she can hear his heavy footsteps. She has no idea why she's taking this stranger to see her beloved child, but somehow it feels right, so she does it anyway._

_He's so beautiful that she finds herself wishing he'd been the one to father her child. The one to make Grey special and beautiful and unique._

_But when Sam bends over the crib, she feels suddenly off-balance, like her heart is beating wrong, anxiety and fear clogging up her arteries._

_"Wait, stop!" she says, and her legs feel so heavy she can barely move as she tries to run forward. She gets just close enough to see him open a vein in his wrist with a fingernail, blood dripping down into her precious baby's mouth, when he turns._

_She slides up the wall, screaming, her midsection feeling like it's on fire, and she's reaching, clawing at the air, when Sam steps back._

_"I'm sorry, beautiful one," he says, and he's got Grey in his arms. "You ought to be more careful about who you let in the house. Not that it matters any more."_

_He takes Grey with him when he walks out of the room, and the last thing she knows is the incinerating heat of the flames as they spring up around her, while she stares down at the floor._

Dean opens his eyes, finds himself on the floor, his eyes aching and his head feeling like it's on fire, like someone has opened up his skull and started gouging out pieces of his brain. 

And, oh, God, _Sam_. 

Which strikes a chord, actually, and Dean fumbles for his cell phone, dials Bobby with one hand still pressed to his temple. He realises, as he's sitting breathless on the floor, that his nose is bleeding sluggishly, slipping into his mouth when he breathes. 

"Dean?" Bobby says. "Are you all right?" 

"I think I know what Azazel's endgame was," Dean says, and his voice sounds thick and clumsy. 

"You have any idea where Sam is?" Bobby says, bypassing Dean's initial bombshell. 

"Listen, what if this is what that yellow-eyed bastard wanted? Groom some kid, feed it his blood, and then break all the seals. Oh, Christ. That makes more sense than it should." 

"You mean -- you mean that he waits for the kid to grow up, and he was telling the truth about leading the demon army then. He just didn't specify _how._ " 

"That's it exactly. If Sam is -- is Lucifer, then of course he'd be leading the army. You think Sam knew that?" 

"I don't think so, Dean. If Sam had known, do you think he wouldn't have tried harder to keep the change from happening?" 

"I gotta find him, Bobby. I can -- I can see shit now, like what he's doing. I dunno why, but he just pinned some poor young mother to the ceiling and kidnapped her baby -- _after_ he fed it his blood." 

"Well, that definitely ain't good," Bobby agrees. "I don' know how you know that, kid, but if'n you're tapping into his brain somehow? You need to figure out where he is." 

"I'll call you if I need you," Dean says, can feel the little persistent tickle of pain start behind his right eye. "Bye, Bobby." 

He disconnects the phone without waiting for an answer, wipes carelessly at the blood on his face with the back of his hand. 

Any second now he's going to tune back into Lucifer TV, and he'd kind of like to be alone when it happens. 

He's enough of a freak as it is already. 

_Matt Henderson has never been so much in love in his whole life. Jenna is the most beautiful woman he's ever been around, with her tasty strawberry lips and lustrous blonde hair, and she just agreed to marry him, said it would be her pleasure -- that she loved him so much._

_He's shopping for her ring when the man walks in, smooth long strides and hair that curls slightly at the ends, pretty eyes and Matt's not ashamed to admit that every once in awhile he's found another man attractive. But that's all over now, this is for Jenna, he's gonna make her so happy._

_He's gonna provide for her, make sure she has everything she could ever want, and he can't wait till they're married and she'll finally lie down and spread her legs for him. He loves her, of course he does, but sometimes he wants to feel her body surrounding his, wants to touch her, but she says she promised to wait._

_So he'll wait._

_The man steps up next to the counter where Matt is standing, points to a ring with a two carat diamond set in it. "I think she'll like that one," he says, and shoulder-checks him._

_"And you are?" Matt asks, perfectly reasonable question. The man looks up and smiles, and Matt's overcome by how much he kind of wants to take this man back home -- which is strange, because he's never actually taken his fleeting attractions that far before._

_"You can call me Sam," the guy says, and holds out his hand. "But I have to tell you, Matt: I'd love to take you home."_

_"But, Jenna--" he says weakly, still staring at Sam's mouth. "I gotta -- she's gonna be my wife."_

_"Oh, that?" Sam steps even closer, but Matt can't feel his breath when he next speaks. "Jenna's been sleeping with her best friend for years now. She only needs you because it's not acceptable to her family to fuck another girl."_

_"Wha--what?" Matt can feel everything he's ever wanted slipping away. It seems too plausible, now that he thinks on it: all those sleep-overs, all those glances at each other, the way she won't put out -- he feels his heart seize up in his chest._

_"I think she'd still like that ring, though," Sam says. "But if I were you, I wouldn't let her know that you know. Just marry her, Matt, like you said you would. Make an honest woman of her so that she can have an alibi when she sleeps with her best friend."_

_Sam claps him on the shoulder, turns and moves away._

_Matt doesn't buy a ring. Matt buys a gun._

_He goes home, and finds Jenna lounging around the living room with Colette, and he stands in front of them both._

_He raises the gun. He fires twice._

_He'll never get the blood out of his carpets._

It's the middle of the night, and Dean hasn't had a vision in hours, which means either Sam is asleep, or he really does only get snatches. _(Does Sam -- Lucifer -- even_ need _to sleep?)_ He's heart-sick, though, thinking about the young mother on the ceiling, or the two girls shot down in cold blood, or even the young man who was completely taken in by Sam's -- Lucifer's -- lies. 

He rolls over, looking for the codeine for his head, when there's a knock on the door. So he stumbles out of bed and opens it without thinking, and Ruby's standing there, her dark hair obscuring her face. 

"I'm sorry, Dean," she says, and Dean's getting kind of sick of everyone's apologies. 

"Did you know?" he demands, and she ducks her head. 

"I had -- I'd heard things," she says. 

"You told me you didn't know what was coming!" 

"I couldn't _tell_ you, Dean, besides, I wasn't even sure. And -- _demon_ \-- remember?" She walks into the room, arms crossed. "It's not over yet, Dean." She reaches into her boot and holds up her knife. The demon-killing knife. 

"That -- what's that for?" Dean can feel his body grind to a halt, every last system on stand-by. 

"It's the only thing. It'll work on him, Dean, even though he's technically an angel. It's his only weakness." 

"I'm not using that on my brother," Dean grits out. She taps the knife against her thigh, sets it down on the table. 

"It's the last chance, Dean. He's not gonna stop until the world is an ocean of blood and fire. Until his demons overpower everything and take over, Dean. This shit he's pulling now? These are just parlour games for him. He's gonna get bored, and real soon. And then? He's gonna bring Hell to Earth -- and don't forget what that was like." 

_Blood and screams, skin hanging in strips, guts and entrails scattered around his feet, everything scented of fire. And he'd smile, hold up the next implement, come in so close they could smell the bloodlust on his breath._

_And they would scream and scream as he flayed them apart, as he dangled their organs, their intestines, in front of their weeping eyes. And then he'd snap his fingers._

_And start it all again._

"And that's all I can do?" Dean can't believe he's even considering it. Can't wrap his mind around the idea that maybe he's the only salvation for the world, and all it takes is being Cain to Sam's Abel. All it takes is destroying the one person he's spent his whole life protecting. 

Once he thought he couldn't do it. But if there's no other choice: well, this is no choice at all. 

"There's nothing," Ruby says. "The demons are all talking, and they are getting all excited to be free." 

"And you're not lying to me this time? There's truly no way I can save him?" 

"Dean, aren't you _listening?_ " she says, exasperated. 

Dean grabs the bottle of codeine, swallows two. "You know what, Ruby? Go to hell. I don't believe you. I'm gonna save Sam." 

"When you figure out that that's a pipe dream, Dean, you have the knife. And he trusts you. That's not gonna change." 

Dean's reaching for her, almost without thinking, like he can shake a different reply out of her, but she opens the door and walks out. 

"Good-bye, Dean," she says just before the door swings shut. 

And Dean spends the next few hours drinking beer and glaring at the knife, thinking about Sam -- Lucifer -- and wondering if he has the balls to do it. If he can ever overcome that prime directive that drives him, settled firm on his shoulders by John when he was just four years old, and ice Sam like it means nothing. 

The beer goes down warm, and Dean struggles against every single cell that's begging for him to just give in. He could be with Sam forever, and all he has to do is _give in_. All he has to do is what he did in Hell: torture souls for the pleasure of it. 

Dean's not sure what's wrong with him, but the idea doesn't seem so abhorrent now. Being with Sam-- 

Standing at Sam's side, being powerful, being happy, never suffering again because Sam -- Lucifer -- wouldn't allow it. 

Never being at the mercies of the demons' games. Never watching his brother die again. Never having to hunt evil, because he would be one of them. 

It's honestly the hardest thing Dean's ever done to push that sweet persuasive pull down to where it can't hurt him. And he knows it's because of Sam -- because of _Lucifer_. He wants Dean, wants him for his own, and he's still trying, even from wherever he is, to tempt him into falling down those stairs, into finding himself in darkness. 

Dean shoves the darkness back down deep into his soul. Lucifer's not going to win: Dean's not going to do that again. Whatever he did in Hell -- that's over. He won't do it here on Earth, no matter how attractive the options look. 

Because when the Earth burns -- and Dean knows it will -- Dean's not going to be at the heart of it. He's not going to stand next to Sam and smile as it all goes up in flames. 

He'll kill himself first. 

He gets to his feet, intending to take a shower before he calls Bobby to confer with him, and then pain pierces through his skull like an iron spike, and Dean falls to the floor, body writhing, eyes unseeing anything except-- 

_"You didn't know this would happen?" Sam's towering over her, pre-teen girl, long blonde hair, hands clasped as if in prayer. "You tried to kill me even as you were the one to set me free."_

_"I didn't know, Master, I'm sorry. It was -- Azazel swore what he'd done was nothing important. I didn't--"_

_"You didn't realise I'd need human form? Azazel did well. He found the strongest body and soul. He found a mind well-adapted to the strain that would be put on it. He set the stage, and you almost dropped the curtain too soon."_

_"Please, Master, forgive me. I am your loyal servant, I brought you forth. I released you!"_

_"You sent my brother to Hell," Sam says, and the silver around him pulses angrily. "You tortured my family and my human body. You'll suffer for that."_

_"Send me to Hell then, let me serve you. Let me prove my worth to you."_

_His hands in her hair, sifting through the strands, eyes flat and brilliantly cold._

_"There's nothing you could do. You hurt my brother."_

_"I made him strong," she says. "I made him yours. One more look from you and he'll fall into line, Master. He'll do as you ask, take the world apart piece by piece. He was so promising in Hell."_

_"He turned me down," Sam says. "I couldn't impress upon him how much it meant to me. And that is your fault."_

_"How?" she cries, and Sam smiles, a wicked curve of his sinful lips._

_"You are lying to me."_

_"I'm not," she says. "Please."_

_"It's true that grovelling is attractive to me," Sam muses, "but then again, I don't like liars in my arsenal. If I can't trust you -- how do I know you won't try to mutiny with your piddling demon followers?"_

_"Of course I wouldn't," she says._

_"No, see that's the thing, you would. Lilith, you knew that I would rise in the form of Sam Winchester, and you tried to have my human killed so that I'd be powerless and you could usurp my place. That wasn't a wise choice."_

_"If that were true," she says, "then why would I break the seals when Sam Winchester was still alive?"_

_"Because you knew your initial objective had failed, and so, suddenly, you were ready to follow me. Doesn't matter. Fun's over now."_

_He holds up his hand, and it flashes silvery blue. Lilith screams, and her body turns into leaping flames, her skin bubbling, her eyes going cloudy, and there's a wreath of black smoke that turns just as much to flames and ash._

_Sam smiles. "And then there was no-one to challenge me," he says, and lowers his hand._

When Dean opens his eyes again, it's bright daylight, sun puddling on the floor by his head, and he sits up, blood crusted under his nose, and discovers his head no longer hurts. 

And Lilith is dead. Dean's actually perversely proud of Sam -- Lucifer -- for crushing her like a particularly bothersome insect. Even though the rest of what he's doing is so awful. 

He tries not to think about Sam's words to Lilith, his declarations about Dean and how he punished her in part for what she did to Dean. 

It lends credence to the original offer, lets Dean know that maybe Sam -- Lucifer -- was serious, and not just fucking with his head to get another damned soul to follow him. That maybe it wasn't just a temptation like any other he might have made, to anyone else; maybe Dean was, in fact, as special as Sam had said. 

But none of that matters. Sam is gone; no matter what he says about Dean, that's not truly his brother any longer. 

Dean turns on the TV and realises he's still in West Texas, the same room where Death visited them, the same room where Lucifer rose up, and as soon as the TV's on, his stomach clenches. 

The news is full of tragedy, and maybe no-one else knows, but Dean knows that Sam is responsible for a lot of it, and when they start talking about bridges collapsing and fires destroying buildings all over the country, Dean knows what he has to do. 

He calls up Bobby and tells him what he's seen, and Bobby tells him that the number of demon possessions is way up, and Dean is strengthened in his resolve. He hangs up without telling Bobby of his plans. There'll be time for that later. 

He packs up their stuff, unable to dispose of Sam's things just yet, and stuffs it into the Impala's trunk. And then he hefts the knife, shoves it into a sheath at his hip. 

He _knows_ what he has to do.


	9. interlude

**part nine: interlude**

Sam Winchester is not having a good day. 

Well, to be more precise, _Lucifer_ is not having a good day. 

It started off with so much promise; he rose, he glimmered, he expected everyone to cower before him. 

But then Dean Winchester, the man who used to be his brother, refused to walk with him, to become part of the new rising order. 

That was the first frustrating moment. 

He may have gone off in a huff, which is less than complimentary to his image. That irks him. 

And then he tried to coerce and cajole and failed, because he was too otherworldly to trust. The silver streamers of his hair, the metallic cloud surrounding him, the shining filaments in his eyes, gave him away instantly. True, he could have exerted his power over them, but, perversely, he wanted them to follow because they believed, not because he terrified them, not because he could command them in such a way that they could never hope to resist. 

But now the people duck away from him like he might have some piddling human disease. 

One of the perks of being an angel, even a disgraced one, is that he does not have to worry about such puny human concerns. 

It is a shame that he still cared, even a smidgeon, about Dean Winchester. 

That is his first failure. 

*

It doesn't help that the earth quakes and cracks under his feet. 

It doesn't help that when he walks into a room, the walls start to bleed; shocking colour sliding down the vertical surfaces. 

It doesn't help that whenever he gets close to a human, tears fall from their eyes, even when they have no reason to cry. 

Or how thunder claps overhead, clouds hanging heavy and dark and low in the air, like Lucifer is a blight. 

It hurts his feelings a little, to be considered a blight. 

Or, well, it would if he actually cared. Most of his 'feelings' are manufactured emotion he brings up from Sam Winchester's memory of being human. 

It's what makes him able to _relate_ , so to speak, to those he's trying to recruit. 

It takes some time, frustrating moments, to learn to suppress enough of his essence, hold it in check, to keep the blood and tears at a minimum. 

To keep the earth's tears at a minimum. 

Because there will be plenty of time for that later. 

There will plenty of time when he _wants_ the very earth to bleed at his presence. 

*

Lucifer walks the streets looking for those who had sworn to follow him. There are hundreds, thousands, of humans who have spent much of their lives worshipping in secret. 

The problem is, none of those people want to come out of hiding. They're too safe as they are, and they don't trust him. 

Lucifer shakes with anger as he tries to convince those who pledged allegiance that he, _he_ , is the one that they sought. 

But they scatter. He knows who has followed him, but they refuse to answer. They do not join up, as they should. 

Lucifer enters a gas station bathroom and looks into the fogged, scratched, grimy mirror. What he sees pleases him -- to an extent. 

But even though he is inhumanly beautiful, irresistible, he knows he is doing something wrong. But what? 

The humans should not be allowed to deny him. If he asks for their allegiance, they should not be able to refuse. 

It takes a moment of staring at his own impressive visage to happen upon the problem. 

He is too beautiful. They are frightened. They cannot fall into line unless he looks like them. 

This seems too simple. Like it makes no sense. But he remembers Dean Winchester, and shudders again. 

Dean Winchester resisted the temptation. He was immune to Lucifer's allure, even in the shape and form of his brother. 

But these others... they do not know what is coming for them. 

That is the second failure. 

Out of it is born the potential for success. 

*

Lucifer does not give up, however. Jesus worked miracles to convince those who believed that He was the son of God. 

So he does the same. A little girl nearly drowns in a fountain, and he picks her up, and she is suddenly dry and well, with no scars from the experience. 

Her mother is filled with gratitude. And even though, in the sun, he knows he has an aura that makes everything around him indistinct, that makes his skin look like it ripples, she gets on her knees and begs to do anything to repay him. 

That is his first follower. 

*

But soon he realises he must do something about the ever-present mercury colours surrounding him. In the dark, inside a building, any place where he needs to cultivate trust, and he is instantly marked as Other. As not belonging to them. 

Then they never get close enough to work his irresistible allure. 

In the end it is not difficult at all. 

His power comes from demons. Without their widespread existence, their belief in him, there would be much less to serve, to worship. 

His glow, his endless well of ability, is enhanced by the way the demons follow him without question. 

So it stands to reason. 

He finds a young woman in an alley, bruised and badly beaten, raped until her lower body has been ravaged with welts and scars. She cries feebly when he picks her up, but he soothes her with soft words. 

She thinks he looks like an angel. "My rescuer, my saviour," she forces through cracked lips. 

She's not far off from the truth, even as she's leagues away from the reality. Lucifer shushes her with one calloused fingertip. 

The thing is, Sam Winchester already had the eyes and mouth and soft expressive features that made people trust him. 

He had the dewy sensitive eyes, the pout. He had gentle hands. 

Lucifer is pleased. He uses it all to his advantage. 

He cradles her in his lap, whispers softly in Latin to her. She doesn't understand, but her eyes drip closed, and her body relaxes, still bleeding sluggishly. 

Lucifer passes his hands all over her body. He heals her in every place he touches. But she does not open her eyes. 

It's just as well. She's no good to him abused, wrecked; she has to be whole. But she's also lost, abandoned here, in a place where no-one is watching. 

Her clothes nearby are that of a street-walker. Lucifer accesses former human memories to identify them, to come to the conclusion that no-one probably even knows she's missing. 

When her body is smooth and unmarked, cleaned of every aching contusion, freed from every type of disease, he reaches into his pocket, withdraws a knife. 

When he cuts her throat, she doesn't cry out in pain. She sighs like he's making love to her, carefully and tenderly. 

When he puts his lips over the wide gaping space where her blood flows, she arches, even as she's dying, like it's the greatest sexual pleasure of her life. 

He drinks straight from the artery, and so he consumes her life, imbibes it directly so that even as she bleeds out not a drop is lost. 

And when he puts her emptied corpse back down onto the cobbles of the alley, he gets to his feet, raises his hands to look at them. 

He is human. 

That is his first success. 

After that the people he seeks out are quick to assist him. They do not even know what they are doing. 

He presents himself as Sam, and they smile and nod and love to look at him, because even though the ethereal qualities he once possessed are diluted now, masked by drinking a human's blood, he's still profoundly beautiful. 

He walks into a library and steps up close to the lovely young woman who's examining the front rack of books. 

In an instant he knows that her boyfriend is the love of her life, but that he's cheating on her. He knows, too, that her father is a reckless, violent bastard. 

He whispers in her ear. 

_My name is Sam,_ he says. She looks up and smiles. 

_You should reconcile with your father,_ he tells her after some conversation. _And go home to your boyfriend._

His voice is like a siren's song. His every utterance is smoothed and backed by persuasion that cannot be ignored, cannot be denied. 

She smiles at him again and walks out of the library. 

He doesn't need to follow her to know that she finds her boyfriend in the arms of someone else. Doesn't need to see the heavy crystal candlestick that winds up in her fists as she brains him to death with it. 

Doesn't even need to close his eyes to know that when she goes home to her father, he's drunk and mean, and beats her until her skin is loose over splintered bone. 

That is his second success. 

*

But through it all, he remembers Dean Winchester. 

He is temptation incarnate now. He looks trustworthy. He sounds, acts, _is_ compassionate and loving -- at least to the humans' estimation. 

So when he asks something of them, they give it. There is no way for them to refuse, not any longer. 

This is his greatest triumph; with it he will rule over every human, smack them down, oppress them until they cannot do anything but crawl weakly beneath his command, his glittering bootheel. 

But Dean Winchester is still his greatest failure. He does not come running. 

He does not search for Lucifer even as Lucifer is also his brother. 

He is not willing to do as he is told. 

He does not even come to try and stop him. 

Lucifer is displeased. He wants, _needs_ , this man in his arsenal. 

After Hell, Dean Winchester is the most ideally suited human for his right hand. 

Lucifer does not think on the rest of it. Doesn't want to recall the fact that this man is his very favourite. That it might even be construed as a weakness. 

He continues to pass through towns and leave wreckage and emotional disease in his wake, but even when he closes his eyes and concentrates, lets Dean Winchester have a glimpse of the power, the ultimate control he could have, the man does not appear and beg to become part of the new world order. 

This is the ultimate failure. 

*

He bruises the human spirit. He grinds them down. 

He walks and behind him is a river of blood. 

Behind him is a river of sadness and despair. 

He walks, and behind him is a river of humans who are powerless to resist. 

But there is one human out there he still must convert. 

Without Dean Winchester, his greatest triumphs are like ash scattered over snowy mountains, and it is this that makes Lucifer step up his game. 

He will win him over. He will mould Dean Winchester into the proper second-in-command that he was born to be.


	10. Chapter 10

**part ten**

_"Drink it, Lord." The servant, the slave, is on bended knees with hands clasped around the chalice, holding it up. Full to the brim with dark liquid._

_Lucifer knows he should refuse. But this -- this is his favourite. He reaches down, raises the man's chin, looks deep into shadowed eyes._

_"It's a gift, a pledge of my eternal allegiance," he says, lashes lowered._

_Lucifer cannot deny that. This is his very favourite._

_He lifts the mug out of steady hands._

_He takes a sip. He takes a longer pull. He swills it down completely._

_And the world around him begins to change._

\--//--

Dean gets into the Impala, knife at his hip, and thinks about what he has to do. This isn't a choice. There isn't another option. And Dean Winchester isn't a coward: he'll do what he has to do. 

\--//--

_When Dean was four years old, his mother died. He didn't see it directly, but he felt the heat of the fire, felt the weight of baby Sammy in his arms as he ran for the front door. And he waited on the front lawn for his father to come and tell him everything was all right._

_He didn't know she'd died at first. Not when he was standing there soothing his baby brother, whispering, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy." But he found out when Daddy came out the front door and picked them both up in his strong arms, and Mommy wasn't with him._

_Dean didn't speak for six months after that. He couldn't bring himself to open his mouth, afraid that whatever he could say would do even more damage. Afraid that somehow he'd brought about his mother's death, and that if he spoke so much as a syllable, his father might be next. Or even Sammy, and he couldn't let that happen._

_But that night, something else incredible had occurred. He'd held Sammy in his arms, and he'd loved his baby brother before, of course he had, but it changed when he'd suddenly become responsible for Sam's life. Sam, so fragile and small, and_ Dean _had been the one to keep him alive that night._

_There wasn't anything on earth that could take Sam away from Dean. Sam became the centre of his world from then on, and six months later, when little Sammy had reached out his fat little arms and said, "Dean!" he couldn't stop himself from picking him up, holding him close and murmuring against baby-fine hair soft as silk._

_"Sam," he'd said. His first word in ages. And once it was out of his mouth, he knew that everything was going to change -- everything except one thing: Sam was his._

_Dean Winchester never regretted making Sam his first priority, not even when he was suffering in Hell so that his brother could live._

\--//--

Dean can only hope he doesn't have any more visions while he's driving, because if he crashes the Impala, well, that would _suck._ It's about the only thing he has left, and at least it hasn't gone all evil on him. 

He's going to stop Sam, that's for sure. He's going to keep the world from going directly to Hell in a handbasket. Or, at least, he's going to try, and he's not going to stop trying until he's dead. Which is a distinct possibility... 

He turns the key in the ignition, presses play on the Zeppelin tape, and starts driving even as 'Stairway to Heaven' comes on, which is more than just a little bit ironic. 

He doesn't reach for his cell phone, because he keeps wanting to dial Sam and see if the Antichrist still uses a cell phone, which is about as ludicrous as life gets. Doesn't stop him from thinking it, though, even as he realises that if he can see what Sam is doing, Sam can probably just as easily see what Dean is doing. 

That's a sobering thought, one that makes him wonder if he'll be able to conceal his cards well enough to keep Sam from knowing what's coming until it's right in front of him. Dean swallows down a breath and doesn't sing along to the music, even though he remembers just how much that used to irk Sam, back when Sam was in the passenger seat where he belonged. 

He's about half-way to his destination when he happens to glance next to him and Castiel is sitting there, in Sam's spot, looking about as filled up with doom and gloom as possible. Dean sighs and puts his turn signal on, pulls off the highway, because he's pretty sure he doesn't want to have any more angelic conversations while he's driving. 

"So, come to say 'I told you so'?" Dean asks casually, flipping the flashers on. It's raining outside the Impala's windows, streaking down the glass, and Dean wonders idly if demonic fire can burn even amongst a rainstorm. 

"Are you going to do it?" Castiel asks, turns to face Dean. His blue eyes are practically glowing in the dim light. 

"You know, here's what I don't understand," Dean remarks. "If you knew Sam was going to be this dangerous, why not grind him into dust when you had the chance? I know how much Uriel wanted to." 

"Because we did not know," Castiel says. "Azazel's endgame was a mystery, and our God did not see fit to tell us." 

"Funny how that is," Dean says. "The demons know everything and the angels don't know jack shit. I wonder what that means about how much your _God_ cares about what's happening now?" 

"Do not mock, Dean," Castiel says sternly. "It's ineffable. Maybe this was the plan all along." He shrugs. "I do not know. Maybe the world is meant to burn so that He can start over." 

"You have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?" Dean turns on the windshield wipers so that he can stare at the stretch of glossy wet highway in front of him. "Then why send you to recruit me? Although it doesn't matter either way, I suppose, Sam is still out there, causing destruction." 

"Dean, Lucifer is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. But for whatever reason, you were Chosen by the Lord. Which means it must be up to you to stop him. You have to do it." 

"Maybe I _am_ Chosen," Dean says, "but maybe I was chosen because I could reason with Sam. Maybe--" 

"You honestly think that there are still other options?" Castiel is clearly incredulous. "What was once your brother is starting the Earth's descent into damnation, and you think there's still time for _talking?_ " 

"No, actually. I think you're right and it's past time for talking to Sam. But it's not past time for joining him -- and that's what I intend to do." 

Castiel turns to Dean, shock scrawled across his vessel's features, and Dean feels a little tendril of triumph unfold within his chest. He's about had it with the angels and their useless directives, the way they show up and do nothing but impart tiny kernels of information. 

"You--" Castiel can barely speak. "You intend to _join him?_ " 

"If you can't beat 'em," Dean says cheerfully, "join 'em." And he watches with a grin as the passenger seat is suddenly quite blessedly empty. He hopes that's the last he'll hear from Castiel for awhile -- or for, well, ever. 

The truth is, though, Dean's managed to fight that temptation this long, and even though it's only been a couple of days, what he didn't tell Castiel was the extent of his plan. He kills the flashers and signals that he's blending back into traffic, and resumes his original direction. 

By the time he reaches South Dakota, he's exhausted and starving and could kill for a beer, but he knows all of that has to wait, because the longer this takes, the more Sam can run amok. 

He knocks on the back door, Bobby's newest mongrel growling and snapping at the end of his leash, and when the door opens, Bobby looks just as tired and more than a little like life has finally ground him down to nothing. 

"Hey, Bobby," Dean says, and offers him a weak smile. "I thought, uh. Well, for one thing I wanted to see how you were." 

"C'mon, get inside, kid. The demons are pretty much all over the damn place by now." Bobby holds the screen door open wide, and Dean steps carefully over the salt line. Bobby's clearly relieved when Dean does so without being stopped by the wards, and Dean understands -- perhaps more than ever before -- how bad things have gotten, if Bobby thinks Dean might be possessed even in spite of the anti-possession tattoo decorating his chest. 

He wonders if Sam still has his, now that he's transformed into the most powerful being the Winchesters -- well, Dean -- have ever faced. And he recalls, too, that Sam had been having funny reactions to salt and holy water, even though Dean hadn't realised it at the time. 

"Listen, Bobby, I've got a plan," Dean says as soon as they're seated in the kitchen, bottles of beer open in front of them. Dean wouldn't be at all surprised if his bottle of beer has some holy water in it, even though he successfully crossed a salt line. 

"I hope it's not as half-assed as some of your other plans," Bobby says gruffly. 

"Well, uh, yeah, it probably is." Dean smiles a little. "I mean, for one thing it means going after Sam by myself, but I don't really see another option at this point." 

"Then why're you here, boy?" Bobby takes a long pull of his beer, sets the sweating glass bottle back down on the table. 

"Because -- well, because I'm not convinced that Sam's destruction is the only answer left." 

"Dean, I love that kid too, but this -- this is a goose chase. There ain't anything else you can do by now. He's gone, Dean." 

"I promised, Bobby -- I promised I'd save him. I promised my dad, and I promised my little brother. If I die trying, then I die, and you can do whatever's necessary. But I'm not gonna give up on him. Not now -- not ever." 

"What makes you think I can even get close to him if you die?" Bobby asks curiously. Almost like Dean doesn't know Bobby's already on board with the plan. 

"Because Sam remembers you and that I care about you. It's not over yet, Bobby. All we gotta do is find something that will revert Sam. And if demon blood can change him into what he is now, why can't there be a spell to change him back?" 

"That's a barrel of crazy-talk," Bobby says, but he looks intrigued, and less weary already. "What do you want from me?" 

"Well, two things. One, I'm gonna give you Ruby's knife and if I fail, you gotta kill him. You can't let it go on. And two, some of your expertise at research -- you know, all those books, all those contacts. I'm gonna save my brother, Bobby." 

"You honestly think this has a chance of working?" Bobby asks, one eyebrow raised practically off his forehead, under his trucker cap, the one with the pig on it. "Every time I think I understand how whacked-out crazy you Winchesters are, one o' you does somethin' I'd never even thought of. I can't believe -- but all right, Dean. We'll try it." 

Dean lets out a heavy breath. "Thank Christ," he says, and pushes back his chair. "We gotta get started, Bobby, because for one thing, I have no idea how long I've got before I get another digital signal from Lucifer TV, and for another thing, I don't know how long we've got before he releases his entire demon army and takes over." 

"Dean, he's immune to holy water and exorcisms -- what makes you think there's anything that'll work?" 

"Honestly? I don't know. Call it a hunch, or maybe just desperation, whatever it is, I've had this feeling since Ruby brought me the knife. And I'm not about to piss on my last chance." 

"All right, I'll make some calls. You can get started on that stack of books in there--" Bobby gestures to his living room -- "because those ones are all the ones I pulled about dealing with Lucifer. Didn't get very far, I'm afraid, what with all of the exorcisms and other shit I've had to do since he got loose." 

Dean forces another weak smile, glancing over the huge stacks of books, settles down in the middle of the floor, and gets to work. 

Three hours later, Bobby's still on the phone, and Dean has barely slogged through a third of one book, but in spite of it all, he's hopeful. There's gotta be something, and Dean can't wait till he's got his brother back. 

He's not ashamed to admit that the first thing he's going to do is crush Sam in a hug until his ribs crack. 

_Sam was just a little baby growing up, always whining and complaining and begging to stay in the same school for longer than a few weeks, but the worst thing was when he was ten years old and went through that stupidly affectionate phase that Dean certainly never went through._

_Sam would wake Dean up in the morning by hugging him, and when he got out of school he'd open his arms as soon as Dean arrived to walk him home, and even though it was embarrassing as hell, Dean always hugged his little brother back._

_He wouldn't let Sam kiss him in front of people though, and sometimes, secretly, it made him sad that John would never let Sam hug or kiss him, ever._

_John said it wasn't befitting a hunter, and maybe that was partly why Sam did it, because he'd only just learned about the evil in the dark and needed constant reassurance, desperate for some type of physical affection._

_Or maybe it was because when Sam was ten years old, all he did was ask about his mother. Dean was the closest thing to a real mother Sam had, simply because there was no-one else besides him and his father, and his father was always too busy to really give Sammy enough attention, unless it was to chastise him about something._

_So Dean put up with the hugging and the sloppy kisses on his cheek for the better part of a year, and by the time Sam turned eleven, Dean figured if he never had to hug his little brother again it would be too soon._

_Sam eventually stopped asking about Mary and stopped begging for hugs, and by the time Sam was thirteen, he and Dean had settled into a routine of carefully avoiding each other unless it was necessary, because Sam had finally hit that awkward stage where he was going through puberty, and he hated to spend any time with Dean because it made him feel like a 'stupid little kid' -- as he put it._

_Dean never told Sam how much it actually hurt to watch Sam start to grow up and refuse Dean's attempts to spend time with him, especially after Sam'd been so intent on being with Dean every second._

_Dean didn't really hug Sam again, not for real, until Sam was twenty-four years old and recently resurrected. He swore that it didn't count as a chick-flick moment, and Sam didn't complain, although Dean was certain he was too preoccupied with the fact that he'd just died, not that he knew it at the time._

_Dean still wished Sam would have hugged him back, and for a split second, he'd missed that affectionate, adorable ten-year-old who wasn't shy about asking for what he wanted._

"You find anything?" Bobby says a few more hours later, when Dean is stretching the kinks out of his back and yawning. He's totally stiff and sore, but that's a small price to pay, really, in the scheme of things. 

"Nah, not yet," Dean says. "I can barely even read this chicken-scratch, where the fuck did you get some of these books, Bobby?" 

"All over the place," Bobby replies unhelpfully. "Anyways, I made some calls, should be awhile afore we hear anything back, really, but I put some inquiries out there. Here's hopin' someone knows something." 

"You talk to Ellen?" Dean asks, head bent over another book amidst the many scattered open around him on the floor. 

"Yeah, she said she'd keep an ear to the ground, see if any of the hunters that gather in her bar know anything either." 

"I can't believe the amount of completely useless and redundant information there is in these books," Dean comments. 

"Don't knock it, boy, there might be something in there that makes you change your mind." 

"Yeah, maybe," Dean says, and flips another page with a sigh. "It's like, endless though. All of this stuff I already know just from seeing what Sam's been up to." 

"Which is a useful trick, Dean, but you oughta try an' be careful about what you see. He might be trying to manipulate you." 

"Yeah, that's what I don't get," Dean says, turning another page and scanning it quickly, then more slowly. He looks up at Bobby. "How is that I can tune into all Antichrist all the time, anyway?" 

"His blood?" Bobby settles down into the armchair with the cordless phone next to him. "You drank his blood, Dean, remember. Blood can do real funny things, 'specially if you don't know what it might do. That's pretty powerful magic -- blood magic." 

"Yeah, well, it was your suggestion," Dean says. Bobby's eyebrows go up and disappear beneath his trucker cap again, his eyes widening. 

"I told ya, kid, I ain't spoken to Sam in months. I didn't tell 'im that. Only reason I know you did it is because you told me." 

"Man, the things you think you know about a guy," Dean says. "I thought he couldn't lie to me, yet he seems to be doing it all the time lately, and I just keep falling for it." 

"It's to be expected, I think, Dean. But if you can see what he's doing, then you oughta be able to tune it out just as well." 

"I don't see how. I haven't had a vision in awhile though, so maybe Sam figured out that I could and put an end to it." 

"Or whatever he's doing is a lot more subtle," Bobby says slowly. "He might not be causin' evil right now so much as setting the wheels and cogs in motion." 

"Fuck, this is so tedious," Dean says, leaning back and arching his back again. "And this was Sam's forté, anyway. I wish he was here so I didn't have to do it." 

"Dean, wishing is all well and good, but by now? All that's left to us is action. Whatever Lucifer's got planned, there's really no guarantee that there's anything to change what's happened." 

"There's gotta be," Dean says. Bobby sighs, fiddles with the phone in his hand. 

"I hope for your sake there is, Dean. And for Sam's too, of course." 

"I'm not giving up hope till there's nothing left," Dean says, and opens a new book. "But I really wish these people would concentrate on what _do_ about Lucifer, not about what Lucifer might do." 

"Maybe you should rest for awhile, Dean." Bobby gets up, puts a hand briefly on Dean's shoulder. "You look like you ain't slept in days, and you can't help Sam if you miss something." 

"You might be right, but I'm not -- I can't stop yet. I gotta keep trying, because who knows, the longer Lucifer's part of Sam the harder it might be to get Sam back." 

"I got a call about a possible demon possession while you were in here, Dean, so I'm gonna go take care of that. Grab the phone if it rings." 

"I will," Dean says, and stares down at the ancient pages. 

Somewhere, somehow, there must be something to bring Sam back from the brink. 

Dean's never going to give up. 

\--//--

_The only reason he doesn't kill Ruby instantly is because she used to help him, back when he was still human, which means maybe she isn't the traitor she seems to be. But she looks up at him with dark eyes, and he remembers what it felt like to be near her, how soft she was and how she managed to be sweet even though she was a demon, and he feels a terrible pang._

_He's happy to be free, of course he is, with the world at his feet and his demons bringing more power to him every hour, but without Dean it feels like such a hollow victory. He didn't expect this, of course. He never intended to be this dependent on a mere human, no matter how much that human meant to his original human consciousness._

_But he underestimated the strength of resolve that this Sam Winchester had had. So he reaches down for Ruby, and she comes closer, deference in every line of her body. She's bowing her head, ready to receive his blessing, although he's not certain he should give it._

_Because even though she helped him when he was human, she was working against his side, against him rising to power. Demon or not, she broke the cardinal rule._

_Still._

_"Please," she whispers. "I did as you asked. I spoke to Dean."_

_"Did you tell him that he must come join me? Did you offer him my amnesty?"_

_"Of course I did," she says, and Lucifer frowns. He can't tell if she's lying, although that might be because she was just so recently in Dean's presence, and Dean has a strange sort of immunity to every power he has. And sometimes it rubs off on others._

_That's inconvenient, of course, but once Dean joins the ranks of Lucifer's army, pledges his fealty, it will be washed away and Lucifer will never have any more trouble with those piddling concerns._

_"All right," he says, and gestures. "You can go for now." He watches her go, and wonders if he ought to have killed her. Time for that later, he supposes._

_It's a problem, though, that in spite of all of his almost immeasurable power, he can still remember what it was like to be Sam Winchester, and he doesn't know what he has to do to excise that once and for all._

_Killing Dean Winchester might do it. But then -- Lucifer can't kill Dean Winchester._

_Because Lucifer is still capable of love, and that love won't let him._

\--//--

Dean's eyes shoot open, face pillowed on his arms, and at first he thinks he was just asleep, exhaustion finally overwhelming his every other primal desire to save Sam, but then he realises that he just saw Sam again -- Sam and Ruby, and somehow Ruby lied to Sam about what she'd done, giving Dean the knife. 

She's playing a dangerous game and while Dean still doesn't completely trust her, he's forced to admit that maybe she's not double-crossing them as much as she _could_ \-- unless of course her plan is to send Dean after Sam -- Lucifer -- with a knife that won't actually hurt him, so that Lucifer will kill Dean and then she can take her place as his right hand. 

Dean really hopes that's not the case. Either way, he's not going to go after Sam with the knife. That's going to be up to Bobby if Dean fails. 

Dean failed Sam before. He'd sworn to keep his brother safe, and he failed when Sam got stabbed, and now he's failed again, let Sam be taken over by the darkness within. He's _not_ going to fail Sam any more, not ever. 

He wipes away a bit of drool from the cover of yet another book and cracks it open, scanning the yellowed pages for anything that might help. 

From the back of the house he hears the door slam, and he grabs his sawed-off and gets to his feet, creeping 'round the corner, when Bobby calls out to him: 

"'s just me, Dean," he says, voice ringing stridently through the house. "You hear anything back from anyone, Dean?" 

"No," Dean says. "Had another vision, though, Sam debating whether to whack Ruby or not." 

"Not that she probably doesn't deserve it, bein' a demon an' all, but he let her go?" 

"Yeah, he did. Fuck, you know what? I'm too tired to read this, my eyes are swimming. Wake me up in an hour, yeah?" 

Bobby nods. "Sure thing, kid. I'll be waitin' by the phone while you nap." 

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean says, and sets down the shotgun. He walks slowly up the stairs and collapses in the bed in the room he and Sam used to share. He's asleep almost before he can even close his eyes. 

\--//--

_When Sam was five years old, Dean bought him the one and only picture book they'd had in years,_ Green Eggs and Ham _, and Sam had loved the hell out of that book, quoting Sam-I-Am and just in general being thrilled about the character in the book having his name._

_Well, Dean couldn't let a golden opportunity like that go to waste, so one morning he cooked up eggs and ham and coloured them green with food colouring, and he wouldn't let Sammy leave the table till he ate it._

_Sam wasn't too happy about that, but he still slept with the book clutched in his arms, until John caught him with it and scolded Dean._

_Sammy never knew why Dean got in trouble -- not because he'd spent some of the emergency money, but because he was 'pampering' Sam -- but he still cried when Dean threw the book away._

_Dean never really forgave himself for making Sammy unhappy, even though he'd just been following instructions._

_That, oddly enough, was one of the reasons why when John told him he might have to kill Sam, he'd resolved to save him at all costs._

_What he didn't know back then was that 'at all costs' apparently included the fate of the entire world and everyone in it, including Bobby, who was the last person he had left like a father._

\--//--

Dean wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder, and it hits him that he's been so deeply asleep he didn't even go for his knife he usually keeps under his pillow. 

Bobby's smiling, though. Bobby's _smiling_. 

"I know it's only been twenty minutes, kid, but I just got a phone call from Rufus. He says he got just what we need in a book, and he's sending it over-night and we should have it by tomorrow. Thought you might like to know that, and that you can actually stay asleep for awhile longer now." 

"Are you serious? I wasn't just pulling scarves out of my ass, there's really something?" 

"There's really somethin'," Bobby says, and grabs the doorknob. "Get some more sleep, Dean, and in the mornin' we should have an answer." 

Dean closes his eyes again, but his heart suddenly feels like it could float right out of his chest. 

He doesn't dream about him and Sam as children again, although he does drift under with the memory of little Sammy's baby-powder smell in his nose. 

\--//--

It turns out to be another blood ritual. This time, Dean's prepared for the idea, but he's still less than keen on going through with it -- not because it bothers him, but because he's afraid that he'll get his hopes up and it won't work. 

"How am I gonna get him to drink it?" Dean asks Bobby, underlining the ancient sentences with his finger. 

_One cup of blood from his own blood, drunk willingly, and the unclean will be made clean. This is only possible if the blood being drunk is given willingly by one who can resist the ultimate temptation._

Dean figures that he's already managed to resist Sam once, so hopefully he won't fall instantly at his feet the second he sees him again. 

"He can't tell when you're lying to him, right?" Bobby says. "Tell him it's a blood sacrifice to prove that you want to join him. Then he should drink it." 

"God, I hope this works," Dean says. "And that I don't kill myself bleeding into a cup." 

"Use a knife real careful-like, Dean, and you oughta be fine." 

Dean closes the book with a snap. "I'm ready, then. I don't wanna waste any more time than is absolutely necessary." 

Bobby gives Dean a smile. "This is gonna work, kid, and when you get Sam back, make sure you knock some sense into that thick skull o' his." 

"I will, that's for damn sure," Dean says, and gathers up the knife and the cup from Bobby's kitchen. 

He doesn't have to ask where Sam is. He knows. It came to him sometime while he was asleep, and somehow it seems fitting that Sam is in Cold Oak, South Dakota, and what's more, Sam is waiting for Dean. 

Despite that, he has no idea what's coming. 

Dean cuts open his palm, watches the crimson drip and shimmer as it falls into the cup. When he has a full cup of it, he sets down the cup and the knife and wraps his hand in gauze and bandages. He's ready now, and he's not going to waste another second. 

He covers the cup and heads out to the Impala, petting her glossy black hood and sliding into his seat, blood next to him where Sam used to sit. That seems fitting, somehow. 

He starts the drive, one long breath to prepare himself, and begins to rehearse what he's going to say to Sam when he sees him again. 

Sam is sitting beneath the windmill when Dean finds him, cross-legged and even though Dean doesn't think anyone else can see it, Dean can still see every silvery strain of light that clings to his brother -- or what used to be his brother, anyway. 

His eyes, no matter how flat and inhuman, light up when he sees Dean. 

"Dean," he says, and his voice makes Dean want to fall to his knees and promise eternal obedience. He fights the urge. And when Sam gestures him forward, Dean's mind is filled with images of torture, screaming and blood and all of it undercut by intense pleasure, but he slams that door closed and walks forward, still resisting the lure of Lucifer's power. 

"I'm gonna join you," he says at first. Walks closer and kneels down, holds up the cup, and Lucifer climbs to his feet, puts one hand on the top of Dean's head. 

"My very favourite one," Lucifer says, and again Dean struggles against the glorious tenor of that voice, like a heavenly orchestra. 

"Drink it, Lord," Dean says, hating the way the words fill up his mouth. Lucifer lifts Dean's chin, looks into his eyes, and Dean knows he's seeking out dishonesty. 

He doesn't feel safe at all, lying to the Antichrist and offering himself up like this, but Lucifer -- _Sam_ \-- nods at last. 

"It's a gift, a pledge of my eternal allegiance," he says, and Lucifer takes the cup. Dean looks up through his eyelashes, watches Lucifer take the first sip. He takes a longer pull. 

He swills it down completely. 

And all around Dean, the world begins to change. 

He rears up onto his feet and grabs Lucifer's shoulders, pulls him close enough to see his eyes, and that's when he blinks, and some of the mercury shadows fade, start to disappear. 

His eyes are still faintly silvery when he focuses on Dean, but they're more hazel than anything else, and he opens his mouth once, works it slowly. 

"Dean?" he says, and Dean can feel tears clog up his tear ducts. _Sam._

"Sammy? Is that you?" he mumbles, and pulls Sam into a hug. Sam throws his arms around him in return. 

"It's like a dream," he says. "I'm -- I'm not Sam any more, not exactly." 

"But you're not--" Dean is close enough to Sam's mouth that he can feel it: the soft warm puff of breath against his ear, the near-silent, subtle indication that maybe Lucifer's been vanquished, if not completely, than enough to return Sam to being at least partly human. 

"I'm still gonna have all this untapped power," he says gently, "but -- but I don't wanna kill everyone around me any more." 

"Oh my God, Sam," Dean gasps, ashamed of himself. "I don't care, as long as you don't bring about the apocalypse." 

"Might be too late for that," Sam says, and shades his eyes, looking out onto the horizon. "I think the demons have finally arrived." 

"Can you stop them?" Dean pulls out of the hug and stares hard at Sam. 

"I can," Sam says. "But -- but it won't be easy." 

"All that power and there's something that's difficult for you to do?" Dean asks incredulously. 

"You weakened me, Dean," Sam says dryly. "And besides, you know I can't die now, right?" 

"And that's a bad thing?" Dean grins cockily. 

"And you won't either," Sam adds. "You drank my blood, and even though it was before the transformation, it was enough." 

"I can live with that," Dean says. "You ready to rock and roll?" 

"I'm ready," Sam says. "Bring it on." 

Dean turns to face the horizon, standing next to Sam, right where he belongs.


	11. epilogue

**epilogue**

Dean gets his answer about Sam's tattoo a few days after the blood ritual, when Sam comes out of the bathroom poking at his chest and drying off his arms with a towel. 

"It's gone," Sam says, and Dean doesn't have to actually ask what because he already _knows,_ and he stares at the bare patch of skin where that once-permanent bit of protection used to be. 

"Do you remember what happened?" he says instead. He puts down the marker he's using to circle things in the newspaper that might be cases, because Sam insists that they keep looking for demons until they get them _all_ \-- which Dean thinks might be a tedious amount of work. Sam swears, though, that with the remnants of his powers -- not as strong but still evident -- he'll be able to deal with any they find, and easily, at that. 

"It's vague," Sam says. "I mean, I knew it was gone, but I guess I was too preoccupied to remember it till now." 

"So, what did happen? If you weren't possessed, then the tattoo didn't matter, right? Why would it disappear?" 

"I don't know exactly," Sam replies. "I know it faded away into nothing not long after the transformation, or maybe before, I can't even really recollect that well, it's all foggy in my brain. Must have been before, when one of the seals broke, so I could -- you know." 

Dean wonders when they're _really_ going to talk about this, when Sam is finally going to admit that he'd gone more than a little darkside. And then he thinks maybe they'll talk about it when Judgement Day rolls around, which at this rate, may have already come and gone while Sam was absent and Dean was trying to find some desperate long-shot that would save him. So, in other words, never. 

That sounds about right. 

"We should -- you should get it replaced," Dean suggests. "I don't know the likelihood of demonic possession _now_ , since technically you were their leader, but I would be a lot more comfortable and sleep better if you had one." 

"Me too, actually," Sam says, and it holds echoes of what it must have been like to be possessed, both years ago when Meg did it, and _altered_ , just days ago when he was -- well, when he was the way he was a few days ago. 

Dean's just as much a master of denial as Sam is, when it comes right down to it. 

Dean picks up the marker and scans the newspaper again, and Sam finishes up getting dressed and comes over, sits down on the edge of the bed and looks over his shoulder at Dean. 

"Besides," he goes on, "there are probably demons out there now that would just _love_ to take me down a peg, to show me what it's like to suffer for turning away from my destiny." 

"Give me five minutes," Dean says, chewing on the end of the pen, "and we'll find a tattoo parlour, get it inked over your heart again, where it belongs." 

Sam doesn't speak again until they're back in the Impala, his skin freshly marked. He's brooding, and it figures, even though it kind of irks Dean that Sam would still keep his emotions so close to his chest, when they saw the effect that had on things in the past. 

"It didn't hurt," he says, and Dean glances at him quickly. Sam rolls his shoulders and leans back against the seat. "I wonder what that means." 

"Probably nothing," Dean says, but even as he pulls the car into the diner parking lot, he wonders. 

\--//--

"Whatever happened to that baby?" Dean asks, dipping a french fry in ketchup and looking expectantly at Sam, who is mushing all of his food together on his plate. He trains wide hazel eyes on Dean, and even though he can still see the faint silver veins running through, Sammy's not the same as Lucifer, not exactly, not any more. 

"Dropped it off at a church," Sam says, and flattens the tines of his fork into his crushed onion rings. "I don't know what will happen to him now. I mean, if my blood's still potent even after -- well, after." 

Dean pops the french fry into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "You know, Sam, I did say I'd save you." 

"Yeah, you did, and I'm glad you did, Dean, but that was still careless and about a hundred different kinds of stupid." 

"Well, I have a reputation to uphold," Dean says. He points with his fork at the laptop, the same one he'd had in his possession while Sam was gallivanting around being evil. The thought sobers him, but only a little: Sam's _back_ , well and truly, and there's not much that can contain Dean's euphoria over that. 

"Dean, I did terrible things. I don't think -- I don't think I can ever just forget about that." 

"Sam." Dean puts down his fork, pushes away his plate. Some things require his full attention. "You did what it was written in your soul to do, and the rest of it? That was all Lilith's doing, not yours." 

"That's part of the problem, Dean. It was etched right into my very soul. And I don't want this responsibility, Dean," Sam says, soft. "I don't wanna live forever." 

"Just because it was written on your soul _now_ doesn't mean it was predestined from the moment you were born, Sam. Give credit where credit is due -- Yellow-Eyes was responsible for that." Dean pauses. "And maybe you _won't_ live forever." 

"I don't see the chances of that happening," Sam says, and shoves out of the booth. 

When they get back to the motel room, Sam opens the laptop, though, like he didn't just have a fit of feeling sorry for himself. 

"Demon signs all over the place," he says. "I'm gonna have to expend a lot of power to get them to listen to me." 

"You gonna send 'em back to Hell?" Dean asks, and remembers back a few weeks earlier, when Sam had opened hazel eyes and then looked out against the falling sun with Dean. Remembers when they travelled through the heart of America, putting out demonic fires with nothing but the force of Sam's mind. Remembers watching the sea roil under their feet when Sam came near. He knows things're gonna be different now, but somehow, he suspects some things are gonna remain the same. 

"Yeah, I will. I'm gonna close up that Devil's Gate once I get most of them put back in the Pit," Sam says. "They think it's a betrayal, that I denied my destiny and chose to work good instead of evil, but they still have to listen to me." 

Dean gets out two beers from the mini fridge, clicks the cap off of his with his ring and passes the other one to Sammy. 

"You did the right thing, Sam," Dean says. 

"No, _you_ did," Sam replies. "And it's not easy, forcing down all that demonic power. If I use it too recklessly, it's like being drunk, and it comes with a hangover of guilt. Anyway. I think there's a haunting in the south of Connecticut, Dean." 

"So the carousel just keeps turning, then," Dean says, and they drink their beer in unison. 

"Being almost back to human and sending demons packing doesn't preclude hunting other things, Dean," Sam says, and he sounds just as obnoxious and like a know-it-all as ever. 

Dean can't think of anything he wants more than that. 

*

_The nun smiles down at the young boy-child, who shows such promise. And when he smiles back, there's the strangest sort of sheen to his eyes. She blinks and it flickers away, and she doesn't know what she just saw._

_But the little boy is going to grow up to be something great, she just knows it._

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** written for spn_j2_bigbang with grateful acknowledgement to lietya and jumpuphigh for beta'ing. I also owe a thank-you to Jen for a lot of hand-holding, to kroki_refur, fleshflutter, lapis1961, maerhys, mourning_night, and vicdesty for cheerleading, to my flist for rising to the occasion every time I panicked about posting it and telling me I would be awesome -- I'm gonna list the people who left me supportive comments, and I'm probably going to forget someone, so I'm sorry in advance: smidgy06, katharwen, applepie_x0, softbluebuddy, deadbeat_nymph, lucy_08, ash48, and jumpuphigh for listening to me panic over IM and then offering to read through to make sure it didn't completely suck. (And beta-reading it at the very last minute. She's a star, I tell you.) You guys are so unbelievably awesome ♥ -- thanks for sticking with me and kicking me in the ass and telling me not to flake out about posting. (Yeah, I had some performance anxiety, so to speak.)
> 
> All remaining errors/typos/screw-ups/plot holes are entirely my own.
> 
> And of course, evenindeath who did such breathtakingly gorgeous art to go along with, and who absolutely spoiled me with the sheer amount of art she did. You are amazing, bb. ♥ Go tell her how awesome she is.
> 
> Finally, to wendy, audrarose, and thehighwaywoman: thank you for running this challenge. It's a lot of hard work and you do such an AMAZING job every year -- and I'm already looking forward to next year!
> 
> Also: This is probably going to be Jossed come the season premiere (I hope!) but I figure this is the place to point out that I came up with this plot waaaay back in January, when on the phone with Jen. It went something like this:
> 
> Me: Wouldn't it be awesome if Sam turned out to be Lucifer? (pulling random ideas out of my ASS!)  
> Jen: Yes, you should write it, and if Kripke did that, it would be amazing.
> 
> So... cue me writing the idea for Big Bang, and THEN, heh, discovering that it was turning into a gen story -- and I'd meant to write slash!
> 
> And -- I had to include that here, because by the end of the season, it was starting to look like Sam really was gonna be Lucifer come next season, and I can't get over the fact that I thought of that before I had any clues to it. I think Kripke might be in my brain. *peers around anxiously*
> 
> And last but not least, thank you to everyone who took the time to read my Big Bang this year. Without the audience, there would be no point in posting -- so thank you!


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